


Ivan da Maria

by c0rnfl0wer



Series: Victory of the Night [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, Blood, Body Horror, Drowning, F/F, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Russian Mythology, aka more of the russian myth au this fandom needs, i'm not a mean person honestly, please remember this is a rusalka au. meaning life after death, the major character death tag isn't what it looks like, Русалка | нимфа | nimfa | Rusalka (Slavic Mythology & Folklore)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-10-17 10:30:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 35,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10592151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/c0rnfl0wer/pseuds/c0rnfl0wer
Summary: Rusalka: a living-dead aquatic spirit in folklore that varies in their attitude toward humans.Navka: a subdivision of the Rusalka, known for its charming cruelty.Viktor never minded when human civilization built up around him, or when other spirits began sharing the waters with him. He easily dominated every tradition that the centuries presented; that was what he minded. No one wants to be known for tragedy. No one wants to be subjected to loneliness and despair forever. No one wants to drag their beloved one down. Everyone wants a happy ending, even if it isn't in their nature.Updates (every/every other) Monday. Beta'd bylily_winterwood.





	1. Buy Yourself Another Day (summer)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: there is a reference to incest in the first little section of this chapter - not of any of the YoI characters, it's an old myth to help set up the story. Feel free to skip it if you wish. Catch you at the end for more notes!
> 
> The plural of Rusalka is Rusalki. The plural of Mavka is Mavki.

_Can you run?  
_ _Can you run?  
_ _I told you not to come.  
_ _The moon is dark,  
_ _Their cries are clear.  
_ _Can you run, my dear?_

 

* * *

 

There is a story in Slavic folklore. There are many variations to it, and some origins are lost to time, and their names have changed through the centuries. But it roughly goes like this:

_Long ago there lived two twins, Kupalo and Kostroma, the children of two minor deities. When they were young, they went down to the river to listen to the sirin sing, despite warnings from their mother. Malicious beings, sirins are bird-like creatures that sing melancholic songs and enchant whoever listens to them, making them forget everything._

_With their memories gone, Kupalo and Kostroma forgot each other. The sirin took Kostroma away, separating them for many years._

_By chance their paths crossed again when they reached adulthood. Kostroma was walking along the banks of a river when the wind swept her flower crown from her head. Her flower crown landed in the water just as Kupalo passed by in his boat. He fetched her flower crown from the water and returned it to her._

_According to custom, this exchange bound them to be married._

_They arranged their wedding and fell in love as husband and wife. They were inseparable, each consumed by the love they possessed for the other, and lived in oblivious bliss._

_Yet this angered the gods, who knew the truth of their identities. Furious at the marriage and the thought of their shared blood mixing, the gods revealed the truth of their relationship, thus appeasing their anger._

_This knowledge, as to be expected, brought great shame to both Kupalo and Kostroma. Neither could live without the other, so deep was their love, nor could they live with each other now. Their love could not save them from such a fate. In despair, both took their lives: Kupalo cast himself into the fire and Kostroma drowned herself in the river where they had met again, becoming a Rusalka in death._

_Seeing their tragic ends, the gods realized how deeply their anger had affected the lovers, how it changed and wrought their fate, and took pity. They granted life to Kupalo and Kostroma again, though now as the flower Ivan-da-Maria, the violet blossom._

_Ivan-da-Maria, the flower of forbidden love._

I believe the tale myself, but I cannot make you take my word for it. Nor can I impress upon you the mercy and beauty that can be found in a world of sorrow and night. I can only share what has been passed down to me.

It is you who shall have to learn and judge and come to terms with the rest.

 

* * *

 

After centuries of living in a stagnant world, some semblance of routine could arise. In so many years it could change, slowly, barely noticeable, until he realized with shock exactly _how_ much had changed. How unfamiliar the world, himself included, had become.

Viktor had sunk into a distinct routine of his own, guided by his own stubborn traditions and a memory beyond the others of his clan. It was fairly simple. And for the most part he led the way for the other spirits of the river, seeking weary refuge in the water during the colder seasons and taking advantage of the neighboring woods and fields during the warmer ones.

It was the first week of June, shifting to start off on Thursday, that he differed in. The one week when he went against new traditions and was questioned in return.

On the first eve of June, he stayed submerged. “ _You’ve had all year to rest. Don’t you want to come with us and enjoy the first day?_ ”

On the second eve of June, he rose, only to watch. “ _How can you sit there and watch? Don’t you wanna join?_ ”

On the third eve of June, he dragged someone down to the bottom of the river. “ _Why aren’t you like this for the rest of the days? You can be so fun!_ ”

On the fourth eve of June, he begged the world for forgiveness. “ _Where do you go on these nights?_ ”

On the fifth eve of June, he forced himself to sleep. “ _Why won’t you wake up?_ ”

The week ended, their nature softened, the seasons turned, June always came to him too quickly. The questions came back to him too quickly.

He was content to sleep and dream all winter. And in the summer he was content to perform idle work. He picked the offerings of thread from trees lining the river, wove them into cloth, and clothed himself far better than the rest of his clan. At least here he was skilled at something so calm, his years of work turning his cloth into delicately embroidered tunics so beautiful that even the tsar himself was not worthy of them.

It was a passionate kind of work, a peaceful one to teach others when given the chance. It was one skill that he had known for much of his life _—_ that he wished to remember anyway.

In the springs and summers he traversed every inch of the surrounding forest. Danced with the others of his clan joyously. Brought life to the harvests of the locals whether he believed they deserved it or not.

He never went near humans then, never talked to them, never let them see him.

No, that was reserved for the third day of June. The one he agonized over so.

There was no appreciating the woods and the moonlight and the laughter during this week. Not when a half-forgotten sorrow would sweep over him, muddling his world in the promise of a brighter past. There was no facing his clan when they did this. No facing himself.

A single day eclipsed the rest of his year so effortlessly, without fail. Though the others could never truly catch on.

The years passed; Viktor kept up the charade, and so it goes.

If he had ever known the calendars humans kept, it was long forgotten. Time never seemed to move for him. It was pointless to count how many Junes had passed since he had first found the river. He didn’t want to count them.

“Should I wake you for tomorrow night or would it be pointless?” Christophe drawled. The tips of his blond hair were stained in green.

“Pointless.” Viktor shifted, turned away. “Wake me on the following day, if I don’t wake up on my own.”

“Fine, Vitya. We’ll try to save some of the fun for you.” The color in his eyes had faded, so slowly.

“Hm.”

And Viktor slept, dreamed, willed the first eve of June away. No one woke him up; no one dared. On some level, he invoked fear without ever meaning to.

On the second evening he awoke of his own accord. He rose, dressed in one of his simpler tunics, and left the safety of the river. Mila surfaced with him and smiled brilliantly at him.

“We’ll leave some of the fun for you, don’t you worry.”

The reassurance had become customary for the clan, believing that they were doing more good than harm.

Water dripped from their hair, now heavy against their backs, though neither dared to coax the rest out. Instead both feared the moment when the damp would leave their hair completely, driving them back to the river. They let their clothing cling to their skin, the weight of the water tugging down the necklines and making the excess cloth at their heels a burden, though neither dared to change or wring the water out. Nothing good could come of the water leaving them completely, even if for different reasons.

At the riverbank they separated. Viktor collected a few wildflowers for his hair then pulled himself up onto one of the willow trees arching over the river and lounged on one of the thicker branches. He was positioned perfectly enough to see the evening unfold below him and even glimpse the main path through the woods for travelers not far from them.

Mila stayed grounded. She fashioned a wide flower crown of every color she could find then set it delicately over her red hair. There was no green to her hair, to her skin; she had not been dead long enough. But Viktor knew what she hid underneath her hair and tattered dresses, always hoping no humans would notice until they were already committed.

Whether her hiding her back or not helped her seduction in any way was a mystery; any Rusalka was obvious from the first, if the humans knew what to look for. They always fell anyway; perhaps it all never mattered.

The flower crowns, the sheer gowns of rich fabric, the fair faces and voices. Perhaps they would come anyway.

Still, watching Mila work was interesting.

Anticipating the lack of passersby for the evening, she busied herself with the rest of the clan. They danced, played complex games always ending too roughly, derived pleasure from each other that could never satisfy. He had always gotten the impression that she didn’t quite fit in yet, that she had failed to make any friends among their clan, and would either have to wait indefinitely or accept this.

Because what could anyone expect from life after death?

She was a natural at drawing passersby in, though, perhaps a trait left over from life and enhanced. Compared to the rest, her numbers were low. But she always managed to catch the first passerby of the week, a feat no others could claim.

She had also inadvertently learned from Viktor, though this fact mortified him. When she had realized the vantage point he had on his perch, she started periodically climbing the trees too. If she saw them first, she could catch them first. It was a simple trick, but she hadn’t let anyone else steal it with force, and so dominated it.

After that was when the show began. A presentation meant for the human as much as it was for the rest of the Rusalki. Amusement.

Where Christophe exuded sexual appeal from the outset, Mila preferred a slow build-up. Where Viktor ended it quickly, Mila drew the night out for as long as possible.

It was cruel and sadistic and her growing collection of bones was impressive.

She was good at her job. One of the best.

He watched as she noticed the first passerby for the evening. How she quickly got to work. How she used the same words and movements as she always did. It was still effective. But this could have been last year. The year before. A century ago. Did it matter anymore? Did she still remember where she got each of her treasured skulls? She boasted them like trophies, but the stories to them never followed.

There’s no winning twice at the same thing, not when there’s no challenge, no change.

There’s no pride in being praised for routine, for actions no longer worked for.

There’s no joy in watching this play out year after year.

On some level, Mila was still intriguing. So different from how Christophe or Viktor handled the people who fell into their traps. There was an undeniable art to how she handled it, like seeing someone paint the same flower over and over.

He never really wondered if she was content with this existence.

“You look weary, traveler, won’t you come and join me? The evening is so warm but the river is cool; we can go sit beside the water and dip our feet in. Or don’t you wish to dance? Your day has been so stressful; some fun might do you good. Your spirits need lifting, traveler. Oh won’t you join us?”

And Viktor knew just by looking that her grip on the passerby’s forearm was forceful, inescapable.

“Lay your burdens down, traveler; you are free here. What do you wish to do? Will you comb and braid my hair? I would be so appreciative. Tell me, traveler, what’s your name?”

There was an elegance to her words. A script that should be utilized to amuse the tsar, not to lure in passersby. She could have been great.

She had once been scorned.

“Georgi, yes? My Gosha. Have you come looking for relief, too? Have you come to relieve yourself of stress? I did, too, you know. Once upon a time. And look how happy we can be! Don’t you wish to join us? Don’t you wish to laugh with us?”

Her hand slipped into his and he willingly followed. The other Rusalki stepped aside, cheering raucously as he silently accepted her invitations. Very few ever did deny her invitations.

It was easy to tell Georgi’s type. They always came. And she was so convincing to them, because she understood.

Lovers _scorned_.

As if their future stopped right then and there.

Mercy be kind to them if they fell in love after death!

“We are so happy here, my dearest Gosha! Don’t you see our flowers? Our dances and games? How simple and calm are our lives!”

Her voice was so sweet, so optimistic. It was persuading, irresistible. And they followed her because they had no choice, not after she had laid her hand on them. She was enticing, welcoming, a friend without a name or trust. They didn’t notice her strong grip, or how the other Rusalki fell away from them, or how close they had gotten to the river bank.

There was only her. Her beauty. Her voice. Her joy.

“There is one thing missing from my life though, Gosha…”

“Anything. What can I do?”

“Well, won’t you comb and braid my hair? Won’t you plait it like I’ve asked? It’s so unfair for my hair to be left down like this, unbraided. It’s so crude and embarrassing for me. Won’t you sit with me?”

“Of course. Anything.”

He sat beside her, entranced. She turned her head away from him and swept her hair forward to run down her shoulders, drift along her collarbones. With great concentration he ran his fingers through her hair then braided it carefully, minding the flower crown that she still wore.

Viktor had learned this from Mila when she had first joined their clan. It was improper for human women to wear their hair loose in daily life. She bemoaned it to every passerby. She would probably keep bemoaning it long after trends had shifted. But for now, humans held sympathy for her in her plight and would plait her hair so neatly, with so much effort.

Mila always shook out the knots as soon as her work was finished. Her victims might take care for her lack of propriety, but she certainly didn’t. It always struck Viktor as pointless. He loved it.

“You’ve done so well, Gosha! You’ve made me so happy! Now won’t you join me in the river? I want to swim. The evening is so hot!”

Sometimes she took liberties with her self-prescribed routine. She would slip her tunic off to seduce them sooner, from the very start. She would dance with them until they were too weary to fend her off, to escape. She would string flowers in their hair and laugh and plead for them to laugh with her.

But she was straightforward this time. She adjusted her routine to meet the needs of the victim, though Georgi clearly didn’t need this extra effort. He needed no further persuasion or traps, like others before him.

The people like this… they came here knowing their fate and accepted it. Perhaps even sought it out. Viktor wouldn’t put this past such a downtrodden looking man as Georgi.

_The lover scorned._

They came here for relief, not knowing what lay before them, and Mila proudly ushered them in.

Georgi agreed to all of her pleads. He followed her and plaited her hair and waded into the river. His rucksack had been abandoned by the path and he still wore his boots.

“Just a little further, Gosha. Come now. Follow me.”

Mila hurried ahead of him, more sure in her footing than him and moving through the muddied water gracefully. She walked backwards, keeping her eyes on him, and led them both to the center of the river. Neither could feel the ground beneath their feet any longer, both kicked to stay surfaced.

But she was used to this, strong in a way that she could take down anyone when in her element. And Georgi was clearly weary after a long day of walking, after being drawn in so powerfully by her. He kicked and pedalled and kept his eyes on her.

“You’ve done so well, Gosha. I promise you’ll be happy now.”

Before he could reply, she gripped his forearm again, tighter now so that he couldn’t fight. Viktor could see the thin smile on her lips as she sunk beneath the water, pulling Georgi down after her and out of sight.

Usually Viktor hated this part the most, for a few different reasons really. But he had to applaud her this time: Mila’s kill had been clean. The clumsier members of the clan, the new ones that had not yet realized that this river was their home now, could get too messy. _Creative_. Blood would be drained from victims right above where the Rusalki slept. Bone fragments would be scattered along the river bed. They polluted water that was already grey. They choked their river with death too thoroughly, too hastily. Maybe it was from proving their prowess, or some unfair passing on of revenge. He lectured them on their routine anyway; if you drain their blood at least do it on the dry soil. Let new life grow instead of inconveniencing the dead.

Mila could be stubborn. She had resisted Viktor for long enough, had the collection to prove it. But she was capable of growth, as they all were, with effort.

The water was not stained with red. She did not surface with a broken skull balanced in her flower crown. It was clean.

And Viktor would be happy with this, for what it was worth, if it wasn’t for the fact that a clean kill from Mila didn’t mean her succumbing but something else entirely.

When Georgi surfaced, he was pale and his pupils had faded so much. The clothes he had been wearing had been torn from him, revealing the thin marks Mila had left in him with her nails to force him still.

Mila returned to the riverbank without a second glance at him, even when he moved to follow her. It was not until she had left the water completely that she turned back to him, briefly.

“Why are you following me? This meant nothing. If you wanna know what true happiness is, talk to Viktor. He knows this game better than the rest of us.”

That was all she granted him. A cold rejection, after all she had guided him through. After leaving her bloodied marks along his collarbones and chest and the promise of bruising around his neck - in life, anyway. For all of her build up, for all of the sweet questions and smiles and affection she played when seducing him, the pretense was dropped quickly. The smile had utterly faded from her expression.

If Viktor bothered to look more, he would say she was unhappy.

But that wasn’t the fun part, was it? Noticing the toll that this could take on all of them? No, the fun part was watching as she harshly abandoned Georgi to figure out death on his own after promising him peace. It was watching the confusion and devastation flicker across his face. Because they had all felt some degree of this before, and revenge on someone unknown could be so gratifying for anger without purpose.

Georgi did what many of them did.

He tried to process his world now. Hid his face in his hands. Looked to the stars and the moon and the other Rusalki as if any of them knew the answer and solution to this cycle. Turned away to hide his vulnerability.

This was only the beginning.

Someday, he would notice his back. No skin covered his back, exposing all of his internal organs. If he was ashamed like Mila, if it hindered him, he would do as many of them had done. Long hair would someday fall to his waist, he would always wear a white tunic, hiding this disgusting deformity from the world. Or, if he was content in his new existence, he might not care so much. He might always abandon clothing as Christophe had happily done - though Christophe had no such reason to hide. The newer members always tended to opt for the former.

What their decayed body looked like wasn’t pretty.

What could they expect, the Mavki? If they get themselves killed so purposefully, they have already bared their soul, so why not bare the rest? Why expect anything different to arise from violence?

Viktor could never fully blame the Mavki for hiding.

Sooner or later the water would further decay his body. His eyes would lose their color altogether. Green would stain his skin and hair. It happened to all the Rusalki after a couple of centuries.

Viktor could guess why Georgi had come when humans knew not to approach the river that night. He rarely guessed wrong. Viktor knew what was to come for Georgi. He had seen it so many times, enough to memorize the full process solely from witnessing it.

And finally. Finally. Near daybreak, Georgi seemed to understand a bit more. To process what had happened to him a bit more. The mixture of relief and heavy sorrow was known to Viktor. It was there, clear in Georgi’s expression, as he finally glanced upward and broke.

“ _Anya_!”

On the third evening, Viktor rose before the rest of his clan. He walked along the riverbank while the rest still slept.

He wrung out the water from his long silver hair and strung fresh blue blossoms along his temples. In the fading light his hair would dry completely. And with his tunic shed, there would be no lingering hint of from where he had come.

His beauty surpassed the others, even when death had graced them with fairness. When the river tainted their skin green, his wrists and ankles remained white. When the river tainted their hair green, even the tips of his hair were still silver. When the river drained the color from their eyes, his remained a brilliant blue. There was no decay to him, not even the slightest scent of death. Should he have found himself among human society, only his ethereal looks would have served as a visible difference.

To him, unfading beauty and a greater ability to thrive away from the river were his true marks of superiority over the others. His greatest gifts compared to the clan and not… the other stories they knew him for. He had been a player in this game since before it started, but he had this.

He had this.

On the rare days when Viktor let them close, he was a natural choice for humans. His relative normality drew them in with curiosity. His beauty sealed the deal.

“Why are you here, lad? Clothe yourself properly and join society. You deserve so much better,” one older man had told him.

“It’s lovely here, isn’t it? By the river? People can be so dirty, cruel. You belong here. I bet you’re happy here,” one younger woman had told him.

Viktor never pretended to understand _every_ aspect of humans, but he came so close. Far closer than the rest of his clan, even though they had all once been human, living.

His style was so different from the others’.

He drew them in with beauty, softly.

Then bit into them, offered them only harsh truths.

“Why are you here?” he had admonished one. “I can sense it in you, the burdens you carry and the anxious look that never leaves your brow. You have a family at home. You have a home. You have a spouse. You have darling children. Why would you come here and ask to join us when real joy waits for you back home? Don’t you feel ashamed? Like a coward? _Anything_? Such a fool! But I will honor your request. I hope you find the emptiness you seek in Irij.”

His clan thought it was his tactic, to make humans dependent on him and his words. He told them something new each time, gave them new lectures and new advice. Made them realize new ideas. His old truths.

And that’s all his words were: his truths for them, long known.

Truths change. Reality shifts. Viktor’s words and realizations come as a surprise to his clan, as if he created some new persona each year.

But he was just weary. To say anything but the truth was too tiring now. To hold any sympathy cut him too deeply, it always had. He was just weary.

“Let go of my hand!” he had demanded of another. “Go home. Say _hello_ to someone. But don’t come here expecting a cure, little one. Do we look loved? Do you think this will solve your loneliness? Your people won’t speak to us because they shouldn’t. They leave us thread in our doorway in the hopes we won’t hurt them. What life could you seek here? There’s nothing here. If you won’t go home, you will have to make do here, and regret it.”

He tried so hard to turn them away. To break them enough to make them leave.

Because if he didn’t lead them to their end, someone else would. Someone else would make them suffer so much more. They either left or he made them leave in a way they should never have.

But none listened.

He knew it wasn’t their fault, deep down. The laugh of the Rusalki could be so enticing, their dances so exhilarating, their games so intriguing. They came in curiosity of the laughter, expecting some party as the date slipped their mind. They came because on some level the unlucky ones had no choice. And once they were caught initially, there was no turning back, no escaping. Enchantment willed their feet to follow the Rusalki, and the strength of their numbers kept humans from leaving their grasp. Once a human’s interest was piqued, their hope fled.

Abandoning his usual perch for the night, he waited for the others to rise and begin their dances, their watches for passersby. They knew the rule by now: the first one of the evening belonged to Viktor.

At the current watchman’s call he started from where he had been lying back and crossed to the passerby.

He always tried to make quick work of them; it was difficult to bear.

Keeping his distance from the passerby, he stared at them for a long moment, a tired smile on his lips. They struggled, their gaze flickering between Viktor and the cheerful Rusalki not far from them. It happened a lot, their trying to decide on whether to join in on the games or remain where they stood, but Viktor always won. The more details of him they noticed, how vibrant he was compared to the rest, the more they found it impossible to look away, even for laughter and shouting.

“I was just… wondering what the noise was about.”

“Do you regret coming?” Will they hear the sorrow in his voice?

“Oh no! I love it here! Please don’t make me leave. I just want to watch.” They sank to their knees, face upturned to stare at Viktor.

“If I let you watch, will you leave in the morning?” Will they hear the edge to his voice?

“Oh please, no, please don’t make me leave. I want to stay here. Everything is so beautiful here.”

Viktor sighed, shook his head in resignation, and held his hand out to the passerby. They looked fearfully at his hand, wary of whether they were worthy of touching him, before accepting. He pulled them to their feet, clasped both their hands.

“Won’t anyone miss you?”

“That’s fine.”

“Have you got nothing to lose?”

“I’ve lost everything in life. Just tonight, actually. She asked me to leave, and so I did. But now… My everything is here. You are so much better.”

Viktor blinked, shrugged it off.

“How would you know that this is everything? Don’t you know how lonely our winters can get?”

“What does that matter when your summers are so beautiful?”

“What about rebuilding your life? You’re still so young. And there are more villages just along this path. If you follow it you will meet others of your kind who can offer you solace. Why must your kind come here when your life seems to fall apart? Does your kind have no sense of a future? It stretches on forever for you, or it could. Yet here you are talking of summers. Is eternal summer that important to you?”

“It would be far more beautiful than this world.”

How could he argue with such an answer?

Mila offered joy and laughter before she pulled them to the river. Christophe offered pleasure before he pulled them under the water. And Viktor, he only lectured and cursed at himself internally.

Viktor also had the highest count, though he didn’t keep them like Mila.

Sometimes he feared his questioning only furthered their resolve. He was asking them to think rationally at a time when that was impossible. The whole affair was as pointless as Mila’s having her hair braided then shaking out the knots. What this lacked he made up for in what comfort he could provide.

Their last minutes shouldn’t seem like their last minutes.

“You wish for summer, and I shall give it to you. An eternal summer where the birds shall meet you in winter and Dawn will greet you before the day begins. I can’t promise you happiness, but maybe you will get close.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much…”

For the light in this year’s victim’s eyes, their voice was hushed. There was no realization, no regret, only awe and hope.

Viktor kept their hands in his and sought the river without looking behind him. His heels met the cool water, lapped at his ankles, and his victim followed him eagerly. The ground dropped from beneath his feet, and his victim relied on him to keep them afloat. They did not kick, or pull away, they just tightened their grip on Viktor.

Without a word he let them fall. There was no need for further discussion.

He accompanied them below the waves, forcing himself lower than his victim. His silver hair tangled along their wrists and he drew his hands away. A hand went to their cheek, rested against their skin gently, to keep their eyes on him. He was just distracting enough to keep thoughts away from their lack of breath. They didn’t notice when their lungs started to burn and their vision faded. The dizziness and natural instinct for survival were unconsciously ignored. There was only beautiful Viktor and his blue eyes.

Sometimes, he thinks he can hear it. He could hear it now. Their heartbeat.

It quickens, pounds, drums louder than the current of the river as if it were everything.

They take in an automatic breath only to choke. But they don’t notice, no. Their eyes are on him. Only on Viktor.

It can’t keep beating like this, with no promise of sustenance. It will quicken, their body mentally paralyzed in shock and physically forced to stay. It will slow, soften, to a whisper Viktor can barely hear until it’s gone forever.

And then there’s just the current sounding in his ears, all signs of life fading so slowly for him. It was a struggle, an eternal one, even if his victim didn’t notice.

And then it was over.

And then there’s just the faintest ghost of a smile on their lips and wide eyes still enamored with his beauty.

It was clinical, it was clean; his hands were practiced in the affair.

It was the closest to a peaceful death Viktor could provide.

Long after his victim had felt their final heartbeat, Viktor forced himself to take care of the rest. It was always tempting to leave everything behind as it was, as if time could be paused. But he had to march onward with the every June, and that meant waking up from his guilt-ridden daze.

The cleaning up process was a long rehearsed one. He tugged both of them up to the surface and threw his hair back, untangling his hair from their wrists now that he didn’t need them to stay still. With deft strokes he made it back to the riverbank with the corpse.

Best to get this over with now.

Viktor called for Georgi; he was new, the lesson would be good for him. They collected as many waterskins as they could find and fetched a blade from Christophe. He repeated his careful instructions to Georgi once, twice, before trusting him to carry it out. This was a two person job.

With the blade he tore a gash in his victim’s neck and Georgi rushed to capture all of the blood that he could. They kept replacing waterskins, holding them so close to the skin. Georgi had a surprisingly steady hand.

At the end they had collected a little over four waterskins worth of blood.

The rest had stained their hands.

When Viktor placed the last cap on the waterskin, Georgi abruptly took off for the river. To wash his hands, his face, the memory away. He was visibly shaking.

He would get used to it.

Viktor disposed of the rest in a potter’s field, as respectfully as he could. He honored the dead, but there was only so much he could do.

“What- what do you plan on doing with all that?” Georgi waved at the waterskins vaguely, disgust written plainly across his features.

“It’s none of your concern.”

“How come you do this? You’re not all happy like Mila and Christophe.”

“Not now, Georgi. Some other year. You’ll understand when those two let you lure in someone. Mavki love this stuff.”

“But you’re not…”

Viktor collected the waterskins and walked away before he could finish.

His work was done for the night. He had kept his promise to his victim. He had torn up his corpse too much for him to be able to return as a Mavka, for his soul to linger here.

The only other option was Irij, the land of the dead where it was always spring. His victim would get the peace he begged for, though it didn’t make the bitterness of performing such an act fade for Viktor.

It provided no consolation.

Because he shouldn’t be doing this.

But Viktor was about questioning and solace and quick, painless deaths and a better afterlife. He was the opposite of the rest. He let the poor souls rest when others kept resurrecting the humans they seduced on purpose. He was sympathy and pity and mercy for once a year, for one person who would have succumbed to another anyway, and repented for the rest of his days.

Fitting, wasn’t it? Rivers were the gateway to Irij. And rivers were the home of Rusalki, where they murdered anyone they wished to.

When Viktor had washed his hands and was on his way back into the river he passed Georgi.

Georgi was crying again about a girl named Anya.

On the fourth evening, Viktor rose early again. He donned his very best tunic and braided his hair, knotting in more blue flowers.

In an old rucksack he had taken from another victim, he packed the waterskins.

“Where did you go last night?” Christophe had once asked.

“I was doing something we were supposed to do though you seem to have forgotten. You’ll learn someday, but not now.” It was cryptic, enough so that he received no response.

Viktor had always done this, every year, even before Saturday nights started having such a dark purpose.

He left the river behind, trekking through the forest and paralleling the main road without being within sight of it. The rucksack was slung over his shoulder though he kept one hand on it as a precaution, to relieve some pressure on the worn fabric. While much of the land was forest, there were some farms ahead. Fields of grain, rough wooden picket fences, a little settlement and close-knit community. People usually smart enough not to come to the river during the first week of June.

The village had been his target since it first attracted residents and fostered crops.

Rotating where he knelt was a necessity, but he tried to be as fair and equal as he could. By his presence alone he was ensuring the crops would receive enough water for the season, a side effect of water spirits haunting the river nearby that the village gladly benefitted from.

Across four fields he thinly spread the blood from the waterskins, kneeling as he tried to steady his hand and control his pace. He had a bad habit of lingering at each field longer than he should have, silently begging that this was enough. That renewed life and a good year for the village could be enough to balance his taking a life.

He made sure to walk through the rest of the fields, letting the river water drip from his hair and tunic. It would be enough to grant health to the crops simply because it was him.

This is what he existed for: figuring out how to promise life to the living. Murder was a learned skill.

Viktor passed through the final field and stepped out into the open land between the outreaches of the settlement and the forest. Normally he crossed it without looking back.

But this time, he stopped.

 

* * *

 

There was a little cluster of pink flowers in his hand and dirt underneath his fingernails. With his other hand he groped along the ground, squinting through the dark, as he plucked another blossom from its stem.

Viktor was silent, made no more noise than a ghost. But this boy was human; he breathed and stumbled without the guidance of light. Viktor could hear him before he had even left the guise of the crops.

Muffled starlight suggested black hair slicked back and running down to his shoulders, which the boy kept fixing as it slipped forward. His head was bowed over the ground still, giving Viktor no further impression than his young age based on assumed height alone.

Viktor stilled, trying to decide whether to call to the boy or not. He could slip away unnoticed, unheard, but he hesitated. Decided.

“Why are you here alone?”

The boy jumped, falling back onto his haunches and staring up at Viktor. The pink flowers in his hand had been crushed by his pressing his palms against the ground to steady himself.

“Don’t you know how close you are to the river?” Viktor continued, pointing off to their right. “It’s the first week of June. The Rusalki aren’t afraid to leave their river, you know. They will come here if you stay here making such a racket; I could hear you snapping flower stems from all the way across the field.”

The boy only quaked and averted his gaze.

_Brown eyes._

“What are you doing out so late?”

“I…” the boy took a deep breath before rushing, “Mari sent me out to collect flowers.”

“At this hour?”

“Well, no, but I’ve been looking all night and have only found a few of her favorite kind. See?” He held up the flowers, noticed their withered petals, and frowned, drawing his shoulders in.

“Of all things… Who is Mari?”

“Mari, my sister. Don’t you know her? You look like you’re her age. Or close. I can’t see you very well, the moon is gone tonight. But I don’t recognize your voice.”

Viktor almost scoffed but swallowed it. “No, you wouldn’t. I’m not from around here.”

“So you’re a traveler?” There was delight in his face and bright fascination in his smile. He sat up straighter and squinted harder at Viktor, trying to see the embroidery in his tunic and the structure of his face. His eyes, at least, must have been made out in the darkness, because the boy met his gaze and stared again.

“Not exactly that either. It doesn’t matter. But you had better get home, or else the Rusalki shall hear us and come.”

“But Mari’s flowers-”

“Here, little one,” Viktor said over him.

Careful not to bend their stems or rip at their petals, Viktor removed the blue flowers strung through his hair. He bundled them together and offered them to the boy. It took a second, the boy’s attention flickering between Viktor and the flowers, uncertainty twisting his mouth. But in the end he accepted them and held them close to his chest, protective.

“They may not be her favorite but they must do for now. Her favorite flowers won’t start blossoming more for another week, remind her of that.”

“Th- thank you.” The fear had drained from his voice, now replaced with awe.

“There. Now there are no more excuses. You have flowers to give to Mari. Now go! Don’t come back here again during the first week of June. Anywhere near here. You must stay away. Go!”

Viktor waved for him to leave, his expression and voice hardening. He stepped forward as if to give the boy one final threat.

The boy nodded anxiously and pushed himself to his feet, flowers still held close. With one final look _—_ curious, inspired, regretful _—_ he turned from Viktor and sprinted toward the main road.

For a while Viktor remained where he stood, looking back toward the direction the boy had hurried in. Questions of what it would be like to return to such a community occurred to him, but he shoved them away. He had a clan back at the river, that had to be enough.

Right?

When dawn approached he sighed and headed for the woods, for the river.

He absentmindedly brushed his hands along his tunic. When he had noticed the boy, he had wiped the blood and soil dried against his skin off on his tunic as well as he could. It stained the white fabric; there would be no getting the blood to wash away. But he would rather deal with this than the consequences of having done otherwise: if he left his hands bloodied the boy would undoubtedly notice once he returned home and looked at the flowers under candle light.

For tonight, he was thankful for the darkness the boy could not see through.

By the time he returned to the river his clan had already receded into the river.

The sun was rising, spilling red against the horizon.

Viktor followed in their path to the floor of the river, wondering when he would bother waking again.

 

* * *

 

Summer was always more pleasant after the first week had passed.

It only lasted for a week, the bloodshed. After that everything was less intense, more carefree. Dances every night and games where eventually everyone won. Most would visit the crops of the neighboring village sooner or later, bringing moisture to them so that they would thrive, to help the harvest that would be reaped later. The humans could feel safe approaching the riverbank again, to leave thread and ribbon strung in their trees as a peace offering. Viktor made all the Rusalki reciprocate the bargain; no more stench of death for another year.

He worked on weaving and sewing and embroidering for most of the summer, replacing the tunic he had ruined in the field. This one was even richer and more decorative than before.

On Midsummer, Kupala Night, he merrily joined his clan in manipulating the river’s current. They did this every year, doing all they could to make sure the flower crowns floating along would meet the right person. They connected soulmates without a second thought.

It was another balance for all their trickery. On this one night they all promised life to the living.

When the wind began to carry the cold they retreated to the river permanently. They slept through autumn and winter and long into spring.

Then it was the monotone schedule of early June again. Same old movements coupled with a new speech colored in his disapproval and mourning, though futile. They followed him into the river involuntarily, obsessed.

The only good thing he could say for this year was that Georgi hadn’t seemed quite as disgusted when he held the waterskins to the new victim’s throat.

On the fourth evening he gathered the waterskins into his rucksack along with the clothing from this year’s victim. He braided his hair, constructed a flower crown for himself, and wore his new tunic.

Viktor had recognized this year’s victim: he was from the neighboring village. He would bring ribbon to the riverbank for the Rusalki with his mother. Now his clothes were neatly folded and slipped in beside his blood. There was no knowing how much good or harm this could do, not in Viktor’s position, but he always tried to return the possessions of his victims to their families when he could. Though even this was uncertain, and more often than not he was forced to leave the possessions at the threshold of one home or another in the hopes that someone would recognize them.

Nothing could be his to keep. Everything was tainted.

Picking his way through the underbrush and toward the village, he listened for any passersby. To warn them away, or keep himself from being caught, either way.

He paused when the forest began to thin out, scanning the field before him to make sure no one was still out. He had left a bit early tonight, but surely it could not make that much of a difference. The sun had already sunk beyond the river.

Except…

Breathing.

Stilling, he turned to look towards the main path. He couldn’t be seen from his position, but he could see patches of the cleared road, could hear if someone took a step along its hard-packed earth.

But the figure he finally found was not moving, no. They were leaning against a tree near the free land between the forest and crops, the only sound coming from them being the loud breathing typical of humans.

Black hair, sweeping along his shoulders.

Brown eyes, downcast by unmistakably brown.

_No._

_No._

_Not him._

“No! Not again!”

Viktor broke through the barrier of vegetation separating him from the path, shoving branches aside roughly and snapping sticks and thin roots under his footfall. It all gave away so easily, the sound he made echoing loudly in the calm night. He drew his shoulders up and was vaguely aware of the anger and concern that no doubt tainted his features.

The boy jumped, as he had a year ago, though this time he simply threw his hands up in defense instead of falling. His jaw was set but the crease in his eyebrows betrayed him. He trembled. He held his ground.

“Why didn’t you listen to me last year? I told you to stay away. You’re too young to seek the Rusalki out by choice. Go home. Go!”

There had to be a way to break this boy, to get some sense and self-preservation into his head.

“I didn’t… I don’t want to see the Rusalki. I’ve heard the stories, I know what they do. Shouldn’t you be home too?”

“Never mind me. If you know about them, why are you here now?”

There were no flowers in his hand. No, this was deliberate.

“I wanted to see you again, I guess. To see if you really existed.” His voice had fallen to a whisper and he looked back down to his feet, pink staining his cheeks.

Viktor didn’t respond, couldn’t. Isn’t this how it always started? With people becoming enamored with him? Distracted? Vulnerable?

The waterskins were growing heavy on his shoulder.

“So…” The boy struggled to find the right words, taking in a shaky breath before trying again. “I figured, since you had come this way last year, you might come here again.”

Admittedly this seemed to be a more drawn out process, but wasn’t it essentially the same? Viktor had been sought out specifically and followed. Just like they all did once they saw him.

This couldn’t end as quickly. It couldn’t end at all.

“I come this way every year. And I leave the same way before dawn. I think that answers whether I’m real or not, too.” There was no humor or amusement in his tone, strained by weariness.

The boy winced regardless.

Maybe he would start thinking twice.

“Oh.” He paused for a long moment, as if unsure what to do with that information yet. And then, “Oh!”

The boy knelt down and retrieved a little bouquet of flowers he had nestled out of sight against the roots of a tree. He stepped forward shyly, thrust his hand out to Viktor, and bowed his head. He was still trembling.

“I owe you your flowers. Thank you for giving me yours last year.”

Viktor took the bundle from him. Every flower was blue, all of the same variety that he loved so much. Sprawling light petals and bunched ones to join a hundred others curled against each other. The stems were all tied together by a white ribbon tightly.

All there was to do for a moment was to stare at the bouquet, as if the bright colors would help him recollect his consciousness any quicker or easier. His free hand reached up to touch the waxy petals without thought.

“Those are the flowers you like, right? I can get you some others if this wasn’t right. I tried to remember all of the flowers in your flower crown. But if I got it wrong-”

“Stop. It’s not that. They’re fine.”

Viktor sighed heavily and closed his eyes. He willed the boy to be quiet, to go away, _something_.

Because he was getting too close to Viktor. His curiosity, his returning, his remembering the flowers was getting too close.

He trusted himself, he really did.

It was humans he could never trust during the first week of June. Worry drove this, a deeply rooted concern that comes with centuries of watching them fall victim too willingly. And sometimes it couldn’t be helped; they really had been passing by and were simply and unfortunately caught up in something they weren’t aware of. But the rest? The ones like Georgi?

It was intentional. There were reasons and motivations and choice by them coming. How else could he construe it? Tragedy weaves through life and sometimes its thread tugs on the cloth too tightly. So they come in the evening and never leave in the morning. They let themselves be swept along in the night and mourned for the remainder of their existence.

They brought a death upon themselves that could never be avenged, and so they never left the river and never would. They would always be there to lure in other victims; it was the best they could hope for, the closest to revenge.

He knew the type. They would come willingly, sometimes days before they finally walked near enough to be noticed. And some older Rusalka would attach themselves to them, or vice versa, only to end up as a teacher that quits the lessons halfway. Then they would be trapped there, just like they had _wanted_.

But this boy… He was so young. And he was not the type Viktor usually found: there was still a bright curiosity in his words and a soft joy in his eyes. He stood with some pride. He didn’t make a move toward Viktor, pleading.

_So what was he supposed to make of the boy that kept risking his life anyway? How could he trust this wholly?_

He needed to fix this.

“You shouldn’t have bothered. I didn’t want you to come back. If you die then it’s on _me_ , don’t you know that? It’d be my responsibility because you couldn’t learn some common sense.” He hardened his tone, his expression, his posture, cold and some fabricated malice underlying it all.

“I…”

The boy’s breath hitched and he clenched his teeth. His nails dug into his tunic, crumpling the fabric. His posture had stiffened so much even as he drew into himself.

“What are you _—_ ” Viktor started.

“I’m sorry. You don’t _—_ you don’t have to take the responsibility. This is my fault. And now I’m keeping you out here for too long with me. And I don’t even know your name. And you probably don’t really care about me anyway; we’re just strangers. You’re just saying this because you’re older and might get blamed or something. I’m sorry. So sorry.”

To tell the truth, Viktor had no idea what was happening. This sort of emotive display wasn’t exactly common among Rusalki. They laughed and screamed and grew violent but never… never whatever _this_ was. That made tears mark the boy’s face and reddened his eyes and aggravated his trembling.

Viktor stood there uncomfortably throughout the rushed speech, unsure of how to respond. The chill receded from him a bit, overwhelmed by the new mixture of confusion and shock and concern that the outburst inspired through him.

In some ways this was worse than watching someone die, because that was peaceful and muted while this was _painful_.

Something about this reminded him so much of true pain.

The kind that he had never registered in himself or witnessed from others, yet drudged up some long forgotten memory in muffled emotion alone. Something akin to sympathy or experience. Just enough for him to know that this was wrong. That he had said something _wrong_.

Maybe there was no fixing this, because he had only seemed to make it worse.

“Please… Please stop. I don’t understand what you’re doing. Will you be alright? I just…”

“You just what?” The boy snapped his attention back to Viktor, voice growing louder.

“I just wanted you to live through the summer. You don’t understand how close you are. I just wanted to help,” Viktor answered calmly, quietly.

“It wasn’t necessary,” he retorted, crossing his arms and looking aside. “I know how to take care of myself. I know the stories. You should’ve trusted me when I came back after your warning last year. It’s fine. I’ll be fine.”

Viktor let another moment slip by, stricken. But he didn’t have to say anything to this.

“Can you at least tell me why you come out here then when it’s supposed to be so dangerous? You can’t be out here idly.” Some of the previous curiosity had resurfaced in his voice and composure, putting Viktor more at ease.

“I can show you. Though you might regret it.”

The boy only shrugged.

“Alright. I’ll let you watch me, since you’re so curious.” Viktor gave him the best smile he could muster considering the circumstances. “What’s your name, anyway? I think you said something about that earlier.”

“Yuuri.”

“Viktor.”

He led the way to the first field of the year, constantly looking back to make sure Yuuri was keeping up despite the dark. He was about to draw out the first waterskin once he reached the crop’s edge when his fingers brushed along the fabric stashed next to it.

 _Oh_.

And this was terrible. This was unfair, undeserved. Because Yuuri shouldn’t have to be any more a part of this than he already was. He seemed so sweet, kind, in their briefest encounters. Confident when he wanted to be, apparently, but sweet.

Viktor did recognize him from previous summers, vaguely. He had always been just another villager, clinging to his mother’s apron as he passed her new thread to string in the trees overhanging the river. If he remembered correctly, some of it had been woven into his last tunic, now discarded with the blood stains impossible to wash out. He seemed so sweet, in the brief flickers in which Viktor had noticed and remembered him.

Yuuri didn’t deserve this.

But neither did the other boy, and so he pulled out the tunic.

“Before I show you what I’m here for, can you do something for me? Can you return someone’s tunic for me? I know they live here but I don’t remember who they are. You’d probably know.”

Yuuri took it and shrugged, agreeing without second thought.

“Thank you.”

Viktor took out the waterskin, held it up for Yuuri to see, then knelt down next to the edge of the crop.

“This is it, the only reason I come here.”

He dipped his fingers into the blood, willing a few drops to follow his lead, then flicked his fingers toward the soil. It was a small amount, but the blood scattered in a few different directions. He stood and walked onward to spread more, Yuuri trailing him.

“Wait, what is that stuff? It can’t be water, this would be a waste of time then.”

“It’s not water. It’s blood.” For all the nonchalance in his answer, he stiffened. He couldn’t lie to Yuuri, especially not now, but neither were his words wise.

“No it’s not. Bloodmeal is dried. Blood dries, and that’s liquid.”

“I know how to keep it liquid.”

“ _How_?”

A pause, considering how he could answer this without scaring Yuuri. “Magic.”

“Wait, you’re a колдун? An actual sorcerer?” Yuuri stopped in his tracks, looking at Viktor with admiration.

“Well, no, not quite that. You’re close, though.” Viktor let another few drops of blood fall from his fingertips. “It doesn’t matter right now. I just have to finish going over the fields by dawn. I’m due home.”

Yuuri nodded solemnly and watched him closely. He followed Viktor throughout his entire route, even the ones he could only offer moisture to instead of blood, clutching the tunic tightly in his arms.

“Won’t your family be worried about you staying out so late?” Viktor asked at one point.

“Oh, um, no. I… left after they already thought I was asleep,” Yuuri admitted nervously.

“Hm, I won’t tell if that’s what you’re worried about. But… You didn’t wait here every day of this week, did you?”

“No! No, just today. Because this is when you were here last…”

“You shouldn’t make a habit of it. There might be worse things than Rusalki. But then, what do I know?”

“The Rusalki are plenty bad, thank you.”

Viktor caught himself before he could show any sign of hurt. _That was foolish._

When Viktor had finished, he repacked the waterskins and headed back toward the forest. Yuuri still trailed at his heels, and for right now, Viktor didn’t have it in him to turn Yuuri away so soon. He had said he was protected, and Viktor had to trust that.

He could trust that.

 _Would_ trust that.

Just this once.

“So, if you’re not a колдун, how do you know this magic? You never said. And all the work is done. And it’s not dawn yet.”

_When last had someone taken an interest in Viktor like this?_

“It’s an old family secret, but everyone else forgot it. That’s why I tend to others’ crops, too, so it isn’t lost completely.” He could only hope that Yuuri didn’t catch the jagged bitterness in his words. But why would he? Being vague would have to stay him as his key strategy here.

“Perhaps I could learn it too. That way it’s not lost completely,” Yuuri suggested, determined.

_When last had someone, anyone, offered Viktor help? Solidarity?_

“I don’t think this is the sort of thing I can teach,” Viktor started, hesitating. It was true, but he couldn’t part with Yuuri on such a negative note. “But maybe you can figure out a better way that can be taught someday.”

Yuuri nodded eagerly.

They stopped short of the unmarked path Viktor had followed through the underbrush earlier. The one he took to reach the sight of the main path from the river. It was Viktor who had forced their coming to a halt, knowing too well to go no further. To try to keep their voices hushed.

The sun was already on its steady ascent, stripping them of darkness and the promise of solitude.

“You really should leave before your parents wake up.”

Viktor was ready to do anything to make him leave, even if he selfishly despised it. But Viktor couldn’t be caught and Yuuri couldn’t get any closer to the river, there was no staying.

And besides, the sooner he was free of Viktor’s presence the sooner he would be safe.

Viktor trusted himself. But when the night is over and every threat imminent, there can only be so much trust left, regardless of earlier promises.

Really, it was best in every sense for the both of them to part ways.

“But I’m not ready to. I still have questions. How did you _—_ ”

“Vitya!” _Christophe_. “It’s almost daylight! Wherever you are, let’s go!”

Yuuri cut off his words immediately and looked toward the river. Toward where he knew the Rusalki stayed. He had been at that precise stretch of the riverbank before several times to appease the Rusalki; there was no hope that he wouldn’t recognize what had happened. That he wouldn’t connect this new realization to a conclusion sooner or later.

Hopefully sooner, for his sake.

His eyes widened at the call, figuring automatically that the call was from a Rusalka. Grip tightening on the tunic in his hands, Yuuri’s attention shifted back to Viktor briefly.

But Viktor didn’t have to say it.

He didn’t have to say it after Christophe had first called out and he didn’t have to say it now as Yuuri flushed with terrified realization.

It was an instinctual reaction, and a good one.

Taking a few stumbling paces back, Yuuri finally managed to pivot on his heel and sprint back up the main road toward safety. Viktor watched for a second then forced himself to break through the tree line and answer Christophe before he could reach the road and see Yuuri.

He had to get away, and Viktor could ensure that.

The word “run” still lingered on his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check out fanart of the first chapter [HERE](https://yayyoi.tumblr.com/post/159446956147/fanart-for-c0rnfl0wer-newest-piece-for-her) by the amazing [yayyoi](https://yayyoi.tumblr.com/) !!
> 
> колдун (koldun; sounds like call-doon): sorcerer
> 
> So, this is as violent as this story will get, just so you all know. Everything regarding Rusalki/Mavki will be explained intext sooner or later, so there's no need to do any research as readers. If you already know anything about Rusalki, I advise you not to hold this story to that knowledge - I base my stories off of the pagan roots. Just remember: all Mavki are Rusalki, but not all Rusalki are Mavki.
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading the first chapter! This will be the first large project for my Slavic myth au series. Please feel free to leave comments if you have any questions/etc. or hmu at [my tumblr](http://c0rnfl0wer.tumblr.com/), and of course kudos/etc. are always greatly appreciated. Thank you again!
> 
> ~Vasya


	2. From Here to Kingdom Come (winter)

_Don’t lie, don’t lie_  
_There’s shadows under your eyes_  
_You told me you wouldn’t do this_  
_You told me you wouldn’t try_  
_But you’re standing now before me_  
_And it’s you, it’s you, I can’t deny._

* * *

 

_age 14_

Yuuri pressed a hand to the ice.

The chill seeped through his leggings, his mittens, found its way past his hood and bit at him. Snow gave way under his boots, undermining his balance. Common sense told him he shouldn’t be there under any circumstances. Still he knelt there.

With all the strength he could gather he wore at the ice in front of him, willing the clouded layers of ice to give way just enough. He needed to see the black water under winter’s guise, needed to see if anything would glint from its depths. Something was down there. He knew it, even thought he could see it if he only squinted hard enough. The promise of golden pinnacles and amber trimmings.

Some better part of himself tried to convince him that there was nothing below the water. And if there was, it was all the more reason to not be here.

“Yuuri, why won’t you come with me?” his mother had asked him constantly during the previous summer. “I thought you liked leaving thread at the riverbank with me. Remember how you always insisted on stringing them specifically by color? Surely you’re not too old to come with me.”

“No, no it’s not that. They just… scare me a bit. The Rusalki.” Yuuri hadn’t met her eyes, had blushed and trembled lightly. He hated lying. “Don’t they scare you? I mean, after Rusalka Week— ”

“But Rusalka Week is over, little one. They won’t hurt us anymore this year. Especially if we leave them some thread. It keeps them busy, that way they can’t come after us.”

His mother had smiled so brightly at him. She had held up her basket of dyed thread so proudly.

He had rejected all of her invitations.

She didn’t need to know why. She didn’t need to know how close he had come to the Rusalki’s stretch of water. How he had heard one call out just feet away from him during the deadliest week of the summer.

There could be no mention of Viktor, of what Yuuri thought he was.

_Thought_.

Thinking and assuming was why he had stayed away all summer. Rusalka Week was summer’s worst week for a reason: it was the one time when Rusalki actively sought out new victims. For the rest of the year they could be relied on not to be violent anymore, but for that one week there could only be caution.

Yet Yuuri had gotten close anyway. He had heard the call of one. And when he was sprinting back along the main path toward his village, he had chanced to look back, and saw Viktor disappear into the woods. Toward the Rusalka’s call.

How could he return to the river after that?

For all his distance, Viktor had been so concerned over Yuuri’s safety. He had warned Yuuri away and kept him in sight all night. He had protected Yuuri to the end. He had been a friend, for just one night, someone to trust.

How could he bear to see Viktor there at the river during the rest of the summer?

There was no appreciating Viktor's protection over Yuuri when he was exposed as being the very threat he had warned Yuuri about. Not when he had been so diligent in keeping the topic of the Rusalki's danger to the forefront, yet had been called to and returned to another Rusalka. There was no appreciating their inferred friendship when Yuuri's trust in Viktor was broken, was probably only conjured as a part of Viktor's tricks. His beautiful seduction and charming malice.

So he had stayed away. He had avoided his mother’s invitations. There was no going back or talking about it, at least not until the Rusalki retreated to the river's depths to sleep the autumn and winter away.

The river was devoid of life as he knelt on its surface. The Rusalki were long gone, and Viktor undoubtedly with them.

Yuuri had felt the need to return to the river since the morning he parted from Viktor. And if he absolutely had to, it would be now.

He had to think everything through, come to terms, without the threat of Viktor confirming his worst fears right then and there. Confirm Yuuri's nightmare with his presence, his revealed home, his true nature. He had to sort out his chaotic and unconnected thoughts before the greatest question of his was answered. He had to come to the truth in his own time before Viktor's existence in the present made it seep into his very bones so forcefully.

Standing with a sigh of resignation, Yuuri stumbled back to the riverbank. A few strings of thread and ribbon were still knotted on the branches overhanging the river, remnants of the previous summer not taken by the Rusalki.

Taking a length of red ribbon from his inner cloak pocket, Yuuri tossed it up to rest on the nearest branch next to a faded yellow ribbon.

 

* * *

 

_Age 6_

“You must stay away from the river this week, Yuuri. Or else the Rusalki shall catch you and keep you with them,” his mother warned. Despite always keeping him within her sight, she still felt the need to impart such warnings and advice every year, every chance she got.

Yuuri frowned, confusion and desperation marking his features. “Mama, what are the Rusalki? You only ever tell me to stay away from them.”

“They’re the stories Mama tells us to keep us from getting into trouble and drowning in the river,” Mari cut in, rushing to get her word in before Hiroko’s. She had never accompanied Hiroko to the riverbank after Rusalka Week, had never witnessed the spirits for herself. Though she was at the age where she began to reject everything her parents told her, adopting the cynicism that can come with age.

“Hush, Mari!” Hiroko moved to place her hands on Yuuri’s shoulders, comforting him before Mari’s words could take hold. “The Rusalki are real; anyone who has gone to the riverbank has seen them and knows that.”

Mari simply shrugged and walked away, as if deeming the conversation a loss.

“Pay no mind to her, little one. You’re a smart boy; I know you wouldn’t get yourself into such trouble. But the Rusalki would love to make you get into that sort of trouble. At least during this upcoming week. They live in the river and when you go near there past daylight they’ll take you. And I’d miss you very much if they did that, Yuuri, so you must stay away from the river.” Hiroko kissed him on his forehead and sent him off to play.

She was already in the process of collecting any spare thread and ribbon they had to offer.

The next week, Yuuri dug his heels into the ground, though he didn’t let go of his mother’s hand. His lips were pursed, his limited knowledge muddled, and his voice more distraught than with the previous mention of the Rusalki. Fear was etched into his being, a product of his standing ignorance to the full tradition and history.

“Mama, you didn’t want me to go near the river. Why are you taking me there now?”

“Because it’s safe now, little one!” his mother chirped, as if the reason was so obvious. But upon catching Yuuri’s confused expression, she stopped and knelt down to address him directly. “I told you to stay away from the river for a _week_ , not forever, Yuuri. Last week was when the Rusalki were looking for humans. But now their week of mischief is over. It’s time for them to get to work watering our crops and ensuring they grow.”

“And you’re sure it’s safe to go there now?” his voice came off as a whimper.

“Of course, I wouldn’t take you there unless I knew it was safe.”

At her word, her promises and reassurance, Yuuri followed Hiroko to the riverbank more willingly. Though he did cling to her hand and hide behind her the whole way. Fear had settled on him, kept him blind to the others accompanying them to the river, baskets in hand and joyful chatter, and he kept his attention focused on being alert of any Rusalki. He couldn’t be caught unaware.

“Okay, Yuuri. Wanna help me string thread and ribbon in the trees?” Hiroko smiled at him, trying to impart more of her reassurance.

“Why?” His voice was still shaky but Yuuri’s interest had been piqued more by the mention of thread and ribbon. He peered around her to examine the basket in her other hand, the top open just enough for him to notice the several long strands of threads in every color neatly folded in it.

“To please the Rusalki. They like thread and ribbon. Because they like sewing and washing linens and all those other chores I do. They find it fun, though you keep calling it boring.” Hiroko ruffled Yuuri’s hair. “We give them more so that they can keep busy and happy.”

“And away from us?”

“Exactly, Yuuri! That way they won’t be jealous and mad at us. And also in thanks for watering our crops.” She set her basket down and smiled at him. “So? Will you help me decorate all these trees?”

Yuuri nodded reluctantly, resisting his urge to glance back at the river with every mention of the Rusalki. Instead his eyes settled on the basket of offerings, watching as Hiroko pushed the lid open and took out the first strip of ribbon. One of a stark white color. She made sure Yuuri was watching her movements before demonstrating how she hung the ribbon; hold the very end of the strip and toss the rest up toward the branch until it caught.

“Now you try, Yuuri. I need help if I’m going to give them all of these ribbons and thread.”

Yuuri considered the colors available for a moment before finally deciding on a pale yellow ribbon. Copying his mother’s movements, he strung the strip next to her white one.

And he was young, and such an activity was more amusing than any of the other chores his mother had set him on before.

He insisted on stringing the rest of the ribbon and thread himself, carefully creating an orderly pattern to the colors, to where the ribbon and thread landed respectively.

“We gotta organize it right for the Rusalki. That way they’ll be extra nice to us,” he explained a few times. His mother had laughed, amused in the effort he put into the whole affair.

Whether the Rusalki really appreciated such an orderly effort was beyond her, though she had no reason or trust in believing they did.

“No, no, not those,” Hiroko said quickly upon noticing the red ribbon being chosen next. She bent down to nudge the red ribbon and thread aside, a signal for them to not be tampered with. “We don’t give red to the Rusalki right now, Yuuri. Maybe later when it’s farther away from Rusalka Week. Red protects us from evil spirits like the Rusalki, it keeps us alive, so perhaps we should save giving them the red ribbon and thread for later. That way we stay safe.”

Yuuri nodded solemnly and finished adorning the tree with the remainder of their ribbon and thread. With their task completed, Hiroko picked up the basket and turned back to the main path. She was stopped by Yuuri, however, as he slipped his hand in hers then held his ground.

“What’s wrong, Yuuri?”

“You said the red ribbon can protect us from the Rusalki, right?”

“Well, yes, it can protect us from harm.”

“Tie it on me, please, Mama?”

Yuuri fetched a red ribbon from the basket and held out his hand, exposing his bare wrist. Setting the basket down once more, Hiroko took the ribbon and tied it about his wrist, making a lattice pattern up his forearm before knotting it so that it would not slip. She hummed gently as she did this; she had connected the fear already incited in Yuuri of the Rusalki.

And she couldn’t deny their dangers, couldn’t say that it was wrong for Yuuri to be so instilled with fear, but she needed to reassure him anyway. Her warnings to keep away from the Rusalki were necessary, life-saving, though she planned to always protect him from them. So, she hummed a merry tune and smiled and tied the ribbon, silently cursing herself for not remembering to do this sooner.

“Thank you,” Yuuri whispered when the ribbon had been tied.

“Of course, Yuuri. Now there’s nothing to worry about. Nothing can touch you.” She picked up the basket and kissed him on the forehead again.

With the red ribbon secured around his wrist and the rest of their offerings presented, Yuuri dared to look back to the river. A dare and sight he had been avoided the whole afternoon.

The water was black.

Where upstream it ran clear and smoothly, here the water was dark and stagnant, seemingly choked with the Rusalki’s presence even when they had retreated below the surface. It was still, heavy and so disturbingly polluted, though Yuuri couldn’t figure out what the source of it was. His best guess was it was a result of the Rusalki themselves; their cruelty and maliciousness that stained everything it touched. Or at least, that’s what his fears told him.

While the majority of those coming to leave their offerings to the Rusalki had already taken leave, one man had stayed behind. He sat on the riverbank, just at the surface of the water, his feet dipping into the black water without concern of its darkness. Nor did he seem overly concerned with getting his white tunic muddy from sitting on the edge where the water lapped. From time to time he snuck furtive glances back toward the main path, enough for Yuuri to catch bright blue eyes and a handsome face.

Long silver hair spilled past his shoulders, messy and unbraided and knotted with blue flowers.

 

* * *

 

_age 12_

“ _There. Now there are no more excuses. You have flowers to give to Mari. Now go! Don’t come back here again during the first week of June. Anywhere near here. You must stay away. Go!_ ”

Flowers clutched tightly to his chest, Yuuri sprinted home at the stranger’s insistence. A pang of regret stayed forefront in his consciousness at not being able to thank the stranger better; to say thanks for both the flowers and the warnings.

It had been a mistake, staying out so late and so close to the riverbank, but how could he return home empty-handed? He had promised Mari he would fetch her flowers, proudly and confidently, and couldn’t bear to be met negatively if he ultimately failed. His task needing to be completed had been the only thought in his mind, to avoid the embarrassment he would surely face.

The stranger had saved him on both accounts, in pride and life.

“They’re not your poppies, Mari, but I got you some others. Cornflowers, I think?” Yuuri held out the bouquet given to him when he returned home. “You promised to get me a puppy if I got you the flowers; you still will right?”

“Hm, I suppose these will do. Thanks.” Mari shrugged and added the flowers to the wreath she was already constructing. “And of course, Yuuri. I’ll go get one for you tomorrow.”

“How come you’re making more wreaths all of a sudden?” His excitement over Mari’s promise being fulfilled was evident in his voice and expression, though curiosity came to him more subtly. This had not been the first flower crown Mari had set to make that spring.

From the other side of the room Hiroko laughed. “Your sister is getting ready for Kupala Night, Yuuri! There’s no constructing a flower crown lightly; it takes quite a bit of work to make a unique one. But don’t worry about that now. We’ll tell you about Kupala Night when you’re older.”

Yuuri nodded, letting this matter go easily. He had never been particularly interested in flowers or what Mari was doing in her spare time before. Yet, there was some lasting attachment to the cornflowers he had transferred from the stranger to Mari. The chance encounter _was_ his private secret after all, and one to fret about.

For all of his warnings, the stranger had been near the river that evening. He had willingly put himself at risk and stayed to ensure that Yuuri knew the dangers. There was only one type of person who would stand sentinel against such malicious beings, who knew enough to walk those fields in the midst of Rusalka Week wearing concern only for others. No others would linger by the river fully aware of the stories and willingly.

“Yuuri, come here, let me untie the ribbons.”

At Hiroko’s voice, Yuuri left Mari’s side and held out his arm so that she could untie them from about his forearms. Worried that he would be gone past dusk, she had insisted Yuuri wear the red ribbons just in case, the Rusalki being so close and the date being so inopportune. Yuuri had eagerly assented, even took relief in their offering him protection.

“I told you these would work, now didn’t I? You returned to me safely,” his mother smiled at him. After so many years, she knew the proximity of the Rusalki still concerned him whenever he ventured out past dark. Caution was her main strategy to keep him safe, but confidence was the next best defense for him.

“You did, and they do work. I think. How did you know?”

Because the ribbons had provided him with more than immediate protection, didn't they? It couldn't have been by chance that Yuuri met someone ready with precautions against danger while out past dusk. His red ribbons _must_  have worked quite well.

“Oh, just old tradition. My parents taught it to me when I was young, too. And the mages sometimes remind us of it after… Well, never mind that. The mages remind us often enough of how to keep safe and red is a very good defense. Your red ribbons and the red embroidery in your tunics accomplish just that.”

Yuuri nodded automatically, his mind dazed by what he _wanted_ to say. _Needed_ to say. His parents had always assumed he would be following in their footsteps, and he had suspected he might, too. But this evening had finally tipped the balance of his resolve to follow a completely other direction, one never embarked on by his family before. He wrung his hands, cleared his throat, forced himself to speak.

“Mama, I wanna train to be a mage, a волхв. Like the ones who say to wear red ribbons for protection. I want to help people, to heal them and warn them away from the Rusalki. I want to be apprenticed to a mage.”

He was thankful for the resolute nature of his voice, how it held steady despite his nerves telling him his wishes would be rejected.

Oh, there was no missing the rumors of neighbors and passersby having been dragged to their graves by the Rusalki. They were the most malicious beings his little village was subjected to.

But this had been on his mind for so long. Ever since he had first strung ribbons and thread in the trees and Hiroko tied the red ribbon on him. Since he had begun understanding the world around him and wanted to shield all he loved from it; especially from the Rusalki. Since he had seen the silver-haired figure on the riverbank, not adorned in red yet trusting of the river and what dwelled beneath its surface. It was a confidence in the world, despite all its threats, that he wanted to mimic someday.

And following this route was the only way to achieve that fully.

He needed to protect others while finding his place beside such dark waters.

There had to be a way to keep everyone aware of the Rusalki and the methods with which to avoid them, to shield oneself with against their ill intentions, while existing beside them. And valuing their beauty and kind acts that reigned for the remainder of the year.

There had to be a way to understand the Rusalki better. Because no one had ever been able to answer why they were so vengeful and beneficial in turn. Or been able to find protection against them completely. Or understand how to appease them beyond facilitating them to bide their time with needlework until the following June. The answers had never been enough, or nonexistent to begin with.

So, Yuuri would find them for himself.

He would find a way to make the world around him calm if simply by finding reason and peace in spirits that were never approached by others.

Just as the silver-haired figure had done.

And more pressing to Yuuri, just as the stranger had done, who warned him of the Rusalki while taking no precautions, bearing no red ribbons, himself.

“If that’s what you really wish…” Hiroko gave him an encouraging smile, not surprised when he didn’t go back on his word. “My friend Minako can be your teacher. She’s a ведьма, Yuuri, a witch. She knows a good many things about herbs and the months and spirits and things of that nature. I’ll talk to her tomorrow about it.”

“Really?” Yuuri almost didn’t dare believe her. Not when his father had been training him to take care of their little inn and the matter of magic was rarely brought up.

“Of course, Yuuri! Oh, you’ve always been so interested in the Rusalki and stuff like that. You were bound to ask at some point. Plus, I think Minako would appreciate the company. She doesn’t have many apprentices, of course.”

Over the years Yuuri had met Minako a few times, but he wasn’t entirely prepared for how strict she was in teaching. Everything was thrilling and fast-paced and so _enlightening_ , the world he knew bits of were now falling into place as she filled in the missing information.

Requirements were brought up before she would truly begin teaching him. He needed to learn all of the months and be able to identify one herb from the next before she would teach him anything else. Then, she taught him how to perform the divine services she needed aid in carrying out throughout the year, introducing every act and holiday with relish as if it were a reward for everything else he had hurried to learn.

Yuuri didn’t approach the services with the same enthusiasm.

“Minako goes at her own pace. You just have to get through the basics and then she’ll teach you all about the Rusalki. And you’re doing so good so far! She might even let you start asking questions of your own before the New Year,” Yuuko reassured him. She had been studying to become a ведьма under Minako for a few years now and had taken a quick interest in Yuuri, the youngest apprentice.

“Or. She can make him carry out all the holidays like the rest of us. Honestly, how do you expect to be a good mage when you won’t even learn the basics? Minako is bound to notice,” Takeshi retorted smugly. He had been studying to be a mage for a couple of years as well and wasn’t necessarily pleased with what he perceived as _competition_.

“Don’t say such things! At least Yuuri has specific interests. Maybe he can find out more about the Rusalki for us someday. That’d be so amazing!” Yuuko smiled brightly at him, leaning forward so Yuuri focused on her instead of Takeshi. “You’ll do great, Yuuri!”

Yuuri had only managed to blush and give his quiet word of gratitude. Yuuko had always been so kind to him.

When the spring equinox came, and the New Year according to their calendar was brought in, Minako called on Yuuri to speak with her.

He had been serving as her apprentice for nearly a year now.

“I want you to tell me why you decided to be a mage. All the holidays don’t seem to excite you very much, so what is it? Why are you here?” Minako examined him, almost impatient for an answer.

Her tone and determined expression gave away her true intentions; she was trying to find a better way to teach Yuuri. Minako was perceptive. She knew Yuuri wasn’t interested in her standard lessons but was under her guidance in search of another matter entirely. There was no malice or exasperation in her questions, only a desire to learn more. To adjust herself accordingly.

“I… I want to learn about the Rusalki,” Yuuri admitted quietly.

Minako sat up straighter at this, frowning. “Well, I can’t take you very far on that. I can teach you how to defend yourself against them, though. But, why the Rusalki? It can’t just be because we live near a river…”

Which is how Yuuri divulged his story of the stranger from last summer for the first time. Of his unexpected appearance in the midst of Rusalka Week, his lingering warnings of the Rusalki with room for little other conversation, and the dark stains Yuuri had noticed on his tunic in the dim light. And his conclusions that the the stranger must know _some_ sort of magic to keep himself so safe and confident.

Plus more. The summers Yuuri had spent hanging ribbon and thread in the trees by the riverbank with his mother, growing bolder in every passing year to turn his gaze toward the river. He drew the first summer out, recounting what his mother had told him of the ribbon and the man who sat on the bank with his long silver hair. He told her everything that he believed was relevant while avoiding any mention of his own personal reaction.

Surely the anecdotes were enough of an explanation on their own?

Surely his utter fascination with the stranger wasn't needed for Minako's knowledge?

Minako considered his stories for a long moment and nodded, ready to accept it all and move forward. Only to come to a halt at the last details of Yuuri's parting with the stranger. She stilled as confusion and urgency widened her eyes, crinkled her nose. “What kind of flowers did you say your stranger gave you again?”

“Um, cornflowers?” Yuuri frowned, instinctively bracing himself for the worst.

“It’s odd that he only gave you those specifically,” Minako mused. She fell silent again, her confusion being replaced by determination. At last, she continued, “I’ll teach you all I know of the Rusalki. It’s not much but we’ll find someone more knowledgeable for you soon. I’ll teach you how to protect yourself, just like your stranger seemed to have. There’s more than just ribbon.”

Minako leaned forward, prompting Yuuri to lean back slightly.

“Yuuri, have you ever heard of Vasilek and the Rusalka?” She had lowered her voice suggestively.

Yuuri shook his head, almost wishing she wouldn’t continue considering the tone of her voice.

“Well, I know it isn’t the most relevant story for defense against the Rusalki. But since he gave you cornflowers, perhaps it might do you some good anyway. Serve as a warning that he couldn't give you himself.

“It’s a fairly simple story, an old tragedy. As you're already aware, there are some Rusalki who leave their rivers to water the crops of nearby fields from time to time. Or to simply enjoy the summer’s warmth. They leave their river and only return when their hair dries. So, the story goes that there was once a Rusalka who liked traversing the fields often and always returned before her hair was dry.

“On one such occasion, she was on her way back to the river when she saw a young man on the road and fell in love with him. His name was Vasilek. When Vasilek noticed her, how beautiful she was and how long her unbraided hair, he fell in love with her too. Under the guise of a game, she ran into the fields so that he would chase her.

“It gets a bit dark from here. Don’t tell your mother I told you this; I know she likes glossing over the darker parts of life for you. But it’s kind of hard to omit for mages. Vasilek followed her by listening for her laughter and captured her, which she allowed. He fell to the ground with her, and as she drew him close, she tickled him until he could no longer breathe.

"She more or less seduced then killed him, to be blunt.

“The conclusion is a bit happier, though. The Rusalka took such pity over Vasilek's death — which I have trouble believing considering she’s a _Rusalka_ — that she turned Vasilek into the first cornflower. Which is where we got our word for the cornflower: _vasilek_.”

Minako stood to fetch a cup of the crude brandy she distilled herself and sat down once more.

“Anyway, Yuuri, maybe this has nothing to do with your stranger, and it probably won’t come in much use for you. But, it just seemed sorta odd that he was hanging around the river and just happened to have cornflowers on him, don’t you think? You’re probably right, though; maybe he’s just some sorcerer from another village who’s obsessed with the Rusalki like you are. Hm.”

She took a sip from the brandy then considered Yuuri once again. “I think that’s enough for today. Come back tomorrow and we’ll start going over different ways to ward off those water pests.”

When Yuuri returned home he asked Mari where and when cornflowers bloomed.

 

* * *

 

_age 14_

A few of the notes sprawled across his room were in Mari’s handwriting, though most were his.

Still shaking from winter’s chill, Yuuri hurriedly changed from his damp cloak and tunic into dry clothing. He failed to remove his mittens, however, as he grabbed a few of his notes from his nightstand and hurried to warm by the kitchen hearth. He huddled close to the little fire on the floor and raised his knees to rest the notes before him.

Mari had taught him everything. Having made a few friends connected with the larger cities, she learned from them the new writing system in use and the idea of writing everything on wood. When Yuuri started studying under Minako, she passed on her knowledge and writing skills to Yuuri so that he could record all of his lessons. He had happily taken full advantage of his newfound writing skills.

While most of the sheets of bark were decorated with the lectures of Minako, useful lessons geared towards everything even remotely about the Rusalki, one was dedicated completely to Viktor. It was always shifted to the bottom of the pile; he had been so careful in hiding it. From its surface looked up Yuuri’s best attempt at illustrating Viktor, the brilliant eyes and long hair crowded with flowers and rich dress. Little comments and queries filled the sidelines next to the rough illustration, all of his musings and fears and every word said to him by Viktor as close to accurate as he could remember.

It had been the first time he had pored over the notes in earnest since he had finished recording everything he had learned about Viktor. All of the information was already memorized; there was no escaping from such extensive history. But for the first time since the connection occurred to him, it felt _real_. He had spent all summer avoiding the river so that it wouldn’t be real and he had spent all winter thus far agonizing over never learning whether it _was_ real. Whether the Rusalka’s call and Viktor’s actions really did align with the truth. Whether Yuuri’s growing suspicions were true.

_Viktor was a Rusalka._

Even without hope of the chance to see Viktor again for a while yet, having _some_ sort of physical reminder of their nature was enough. Careful etchings of the Rusalki brought him back to the unnecessary realization that Rusalki could pass for humans if one was not attentive. Sprawling handwriting reaffirmed every fact that he knew and could explain against what he knew of Viktor. Every mention of their elusive nature and murderous habits resulting in bloodshed and focus on revitalizing the land.

The blood Viktor carried that had not yet dried and was never explained. What magic had Yuuri ever heard of that could sustain blood for so long? Who could ever keep it moist as someone dedicated to the nature of water, of a water spirit? He had kept the blood then relinquished it to the soil, ensuring the success of the year's crops through a nutrient no others could provide. There were blood stains on his tunic the year before and blood on his hands this past summer; Yuuri had never thought that it could be blood of a  _human_ , not until now.

And the tunic, that he had dutifully returned for Viktor to the parents of one of Mari's friends. The parents who now six months past had begun to look with suspicion at Yuuri and only left him be when he said that he had found it in the fields. Who had begun to be seen with tears more often than not, bemoaning the funeral they could never complete. No one had seen the boy since the summer. No one knew what had happened to him for certain. And the neighbors who guessed dared not mention it. Because the parents had to have known that he had simply come too close to the Rusalki, for no trace of him to be left right during Rusalka Week. And they could tell, couldn't they? The guilt that Yuuri was now drenched with whenever he was in their presence? Only in their presence; he couldn't bear to think of the tunic and who it had belonged to when not faced with it. How could he cope with the facts of the missing boy who had worn the tunic and the person who had given it to him to return?

And the cornflowers, the bouquet given to him and returned a year later.

Viktor _had_ to be a Rusalka.

It was a drawn-out epiphany, even when it should have been realized and concluded firmly the last time he had seen Viktor. But how could he attribute a malicious will to someone who had been so kind to him? Or accuse someone he wanted to call a _friend_ of being a Rusalka? It was difficult, a violation of Yuuri’s yearning to trust others.

And how could he return to the river come summer knowing that?

Yuuri cursed himself for never having found out the truth behind Viktor. His ponderings and knowledge and connections were no substitute for affirmation. The notes in his hands and echoing memory of the Rusalka’s call for Viktor could only add so much depth to his argument.

Maybe it was for the best. For himself, and for Viktor.

“I didn’t think you needed your notes anymore, Yuuri,” his mother said as she returned home. She knelt next to Yuuri and glanced over the rigid carvings of illustrations and symbols though her reading skills were rudimentary.

“Just checking to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything,” Yuuri hummed.

“That’s always a good idea, my little mouse.” Hiroko laid a hand on his shoulder. “You must be excited for the summer. Now you can see the Rusalki and understand them more. More than the rest of us, certainly!”

“Oh, yeah. But, I think I’ll wait to do any of that until I know _everything_ about them. They are still dangerous, after all.”

Hiroko frowned. “I thought you were learning to protect yourself from their seduction and everything else? Has Minako not taught you any of that yet?”

"She has. I mean, they're not absolute guarantees of protection if I get too close at the wrong time, but I know how to protect myself. But there's more than just protection. More than Minako knows already and that I could learn on my own. I just know protection."

“Well, can she find anyone else who knows? You’ve devoted so much time to them, Yuuri. I don’t want to see you be stopped like this.”

“Yeah, she’s working on that. We’re trying to get one волхв to teach me. He’s from another land, but he knows all about them. It’s just been difficult since he has another apprentice already and Minako is willing to take in a roommate until they get settled more, but she doesn’t have _that_ much room.” Yuuri set aside his notes and leaned his head against Hiroko's shoulder.

“Why didn’t you tell me this earlier? What if the apprentice just shares your room for a while? Wouldn’t that be better anyway, so that you can learn from each other? Tell Minako not to fret about that.”

“Really?” Yuuri snapped his attention to Hiroko, eyes wide and a smile already playing on his lips.

“Of course, Yuuri! What’s the apprentice’s name, anyway?”

“Oh, I don’t know that. But I know the mage’s name is Celestino. He’s an old friend of Minako’s. Apparently they had the same teacher for a while or something? Back from when Minako traveled to the thrice-tenth kingdom to learn to be the best ведьма, that's when she met Celestino. She thinks he’s my best chance of learning more about the Rusalki. They're what he focused on.”

“Well then, if the one issue has been resolved, shouldn’t you run and tell Minako?” his mother offered him a brilliant smile and accepted his quick hug in return.

Leaving his notes piled next to the stove where he had sat, Yuuri hurried down the pathway to tell Minako the news and have word sent to Celestino and his apprentice.

 

* * *

 

_age 13_

Red ribbon climbed up his forearms, crisscrossing and tied tightly at the ends. In a thin cloth pouch hung from his neck there were herbs specifically meant for warding off the advances of Rusalki, to be used should he encounter one. He had listened to the stranger’s warnings a year prior, had strengthened his own shields against the Rusalki’s charm, and returned to the fields confidently.

Their previous meeting had been so brief and ominous, a source of intrigue and curiosity from both Yuuri and Minako during the intervening year. Part of Yuuri had begun to doubt that their meeting had ever even happened; the night had been so stressful and the stranger’s presence so unlikely.

And Yuuri tried to explain it, to wave his presence off as logical. To say he was a mage just there to carry out his duties or study the Rusalki was easy, it fit into place considering how little he knew. Perhaps it was a bit self-indulgent, to assume the stranger was a колдун simply because Yuuri wanted to study to be a волхв, but he could not rationally think of any other explanation. Even with the addition of Minako’s odd remarks on how suggestive the cornflowers could have been.

The stranger had to be a sorcerer.

If he was real at all and not some dream of Yuuri’s conjured from understandable fear. All of the stranger’s words had been warnings, after all.

So, Yuuri prepared himself to deflect the Rusalki’s dangers, to present the ribbon and herbs should the demand rise. And he spent the evening waiting at the threshold of the forest, half-hoping and half-fearing the return of the stranger.

And Viktor had returned.

And seemed like someone Yuuri could be friends with. Seemed like someone to trust and learn from, considering what little he had come to understand about Viktor.

“But I’m not ready to. I still have questions. How did you — ”

“Vitya! It’s almost daylight! Wherever you are, let’s go!"

_Rusalki_. How could he not know? Not recognize the riverbank starting to clutter with ribbon?

At the end of the second encounter, when the sun was rising at his back and lighting the way for every frantic footstep, he was consumed with even more questions than answers. Viktor was real, oh there was no doubt anymore, but the mysteries that took that question’s place were even more grave.

All of his tedious lessons and thoughtful preparations. All had failed.

Viktor was a Rusalka, or at least so closely related to them, someone that promised some underlying malicious intent despite his kindness. Because that’s how it went, right? The Rusalka earns the attention of the human and seduces them and kills them. Vasilek loses his breath and is shifted into a cornflower in pity. Isn’t that the story? How could Yuuri expect anything else of Viktor? Of someone who had been so trustworthy and now so suspicious simply through the call of another?

Viktor was a Rusalka, the sort that Yuuri was supposed to be learning to detect and repel.

Someone of a malicious breed. The figure that would soon fill his notes with illustrations and comments.

So why did his ribbon and herbs fail in the last?

Why was he not protected by what he had known to be absolute?

Yuuri had to be wrong, in one way or other.

 

* * *

 

_age 18_

“Yuuri, hurry up, the celebrations are about to begin. And you heard Celestino; you can’t keep skipping this.” Phichit leaned in the doorway to their bedroom, already dressed for the day. He struggled to maintain a disapproving frown despite his eyes being alight with excitement.

Instead of a direct answer, Yuuri simply hummed and finished pulling the thread taut in another seam before abandoning the fabric and needle. It was almost finished, the symbol almost fully pronounced against the white background, but he could pick it up again later.

He had to.

His embroidery had been a recent fare, but the result of his years of learning under Minako and Celestino. When Celestino and his apprentice had relocated to Yuuri's village from the thrice-tenth kingdom no one had expected them to stay for long. But then, no one had expected Yuuri to be such a promising apprentice, and more. It was enough for Celestino and his apprentice to live there permanently, settling into the new village well enough; Minako had welcomed the help as the only fully trained ведьма present.

A lot had changed for them over the years as they took on more responsibilities in their trade, but Yuuri had shared his room since Celestino's little apprentice, Phichit, had come. Neither were willing to separate for long, and neither had ever found others with the same interests. Phichit got along with Yuuko and Takeshi and all of the other youth of the village, but he always came back to Yuuri when he wanted to talk about the Vili, or to listen to Yuuri rant about the Rusalki. Likewise, Phichit was the only person Yuuri would leave his work for. It was a mutual relationship, a tight-knit one.

It turned out for the best overall. Phichit and Yuuri worked well together during the holiday ceremonies, exchanged what they each remembered from Celestino's offhand rants, in turn tried to decipher said rants together when they became too vague. Phichit was the social personality: he took what Yuuri knew and warned the people of the village about the Rusalki on Yuuri's behalf when Yuuri was too anxious to say anything. Yuuri ended up being the moral compass more often than not: where Phichit was excited simply to share new knowledge, Yuuri reminded him of how new knowledge meant better warnings against danger.

It was a balanced enough relationship to where Yuuri was reserved to focus on his research of mage work while Phichit upheld the social aspects.

Yuuri had never been fond of the raucous celebrations his little village held so frequently. And for the most part Celestino and Minako had allowed him to miss the events with his excuses of his needing to work, leaving them and the Nishigoris to carry out the festivities on their own. For all of his begging for company, Phichit too allowed him to remain secluded on these days. He was well aware of Yuuri’s shy nature and discomfort around others, so he let Yuuri off lightly after some effort.

But his excuses were wearing thin. He had come so far in the previous years and some breaks in his work surely could not damage his concentration and creativity that badly. And Phichit had begun insisting that there was nothing to worry over if they just stayed by each other’s side. His excuses were wearing thin, nearly nonexistent now as Celestino had finally hardened his resolve.

Yuuri would be attending this year’s celebration for the end of Rusalka Week, even if involuntarily. Because he had surpassed even Celestino’s knowledge of the Rusalki and was coming close to a new shield against their seduction entirely. Because his village was proud of their native that had surpassed many others in skill, and at such a young age. They wanted to congratulate him for his discoveries and efforts towards protecting them all against the Rusalki; he wanted to remain at home and finish his current attempt.

Gesturing Phichit to leave, he quickly dressed for the celebration without much thought and fell in step with Phichit as they joined the rest of his family by the riverbank.

Ribbon and thread was strung from nearly every overhanging branch.

Yuuri hadn’t dared return to this stretch of the river since the winter following his meeting Viktor a second time. He hadn’t seen the bright ribbon and thread, the Rusalki, Viktor, in five years.

How could he return when he had failed before? Had put himself at risk? Had carried the tunic of a victim? Had trusted a Rusalka so easily that he was ignorant to Viktor’s true nature? How could he return before proving that he really could protect himself and others?

Hiroko nudged Yuuri and held out a few spare ribbons, an invitation. Not wanting to disappoint her any more than he should have during these events of previous years, Yuuri accepted the ribbons and caught them on the branches.

And thanked tradition sincerely that his time near the river was so short.

The leader of the village said his words of gratitude toward the Rusalki’s coming service to their crops, reiterated the exact necessity of the ribbons and thread that Hiroko had taught to Yuuri years before, then let them leave for the evening of merrymaking with little time wasted.

Yuuri breathed easier when he left the riverbank and fields behind.

Returning to the Rusalki's territory, where he knew Viktor lived, the open land where they first met, it was hard to bear. After so many years the reality had drenched his consciousness, his very blood, until there was no denying. There was no forgetting. For all of the doubts that he wished he had and all the reasons he wished he could dismiss. He wanted to follow Viktor innately, unreasonably; he couldn't.

He wasn’t ready to return yet. Not until his embroidery was complete. Not before he was certain that he could prove himself.

The longing and hurt and curiosity were too much to bear.

“By the way, you’re coming to Kupala Night this year,” Phichit remarked absentmindedly. He slung an arm over Yuuri’s shoulders, trying to stifle his grin.

“What?”

“No, Yuuri! Don’t try to back out of this either. You need to _live_ at some point.”

“I don’t think— ” Yuuri fell short in his protests, reconsidered the demand for its worth. “Fine, Phichit, you win. I’ll go to Kupala Night with you.”

He bled his voice of everything but resignation, of weariness and slight annoyance. His expression of everything but boredom. Phichit didn’t need to be hurt over Yuuri’s true intentions. Besides, if Phichit knew what Yuuri was planning, he would stay by Yuuri’s side the whole time instead of enjoying the evening for himself.

And that couldn’t be allowed.

“Good, you’re learning!” Phichit cheered and quickened his pace back to the village in impatience. “We can make our flower crowns together, if you want. I won’t let you get away with just waiting downstream, oh no, you’re getting the full experience.”

For all of Phichit’s visionary predictions, Yuuri spent the weeks counting down to Kupala Night reworking and improving his embroidery instead of learning to knot flower crowns.

The embroidery he learned from his mother and Yuuko, both skilled in the art. The repeating symbols he designed with Minako and Celestino's suggestions and corrections. The facts that he had missed or forgotten over time Takeshi and Phichit had provided, the final touches and reminders as Yuuri lost track of the days. It had to be perfect. He couldn’t get this far, drag his loved ones with him, and fail.

His fingertips were calloused to the needle’s sting by the time he was finished. More fabric than he wished to acknowledge had been cast aside, the embroidery beyond redemption in his opinion, though his mother saved every scrap. It claimed his every thought, his every waking breath until it crept into his unconsciousness.

He had to finish it. His mother once told him that red was used for protection. That the embroidery that adorned every one of his tunics was designed and drawn in for protection. The shield that embroidery had offered him in the past had to be pushed to its limits now. Designed and worked over again and again until it served as a stronger defense against darkness. Minako once warned him that herbs and red ribbon would never be enough to get close to Rusalki, and Yuuri had taken every word from her and his mother to heart. He had turned to the traditions his mother had taught him, had impressed upon him. What more could he trust if he was ever to seek out Viktor again?

Phichit worked with Mari on where to find the best flowers for Kupala Night, and Yuuri embroidered. There was no thought to coming days for any other reason than painting the white fabric with red thread before he missed his best chance completely. Talk of Kupala Night fell on deaf ears, as did most things. What was the rest of the world when there was such a heavily-invested effort at hand?

“I know you didn’t make anything yet so here,” Phichit said, thrusting a bouquet of cornflowers into Yuuri’s hands. Exasperation colored his tone clearly, though the persistent hope to save Yuuri’s position in the evening was obvious. “That’s enough to make a flower crown. You better hurry if you’re gonna be ready by sunset, Yuuri.”

“Thank you,” Yuuri replied dumbly, lightly blushing from having been confronted so directly. He stared at the little bouquet for a moment, incapable of adding more out of surprise.

“Just get it done, please? I need _some_ help if I’m gonna be dragging you into the outside world more. I can’t be the only one working to make your life better.” For the heavy words, Phichit’s tone was light-hearted, jesting.

Yuuri scoffed but ultimately greeted Phichit's words. He listened to Phichit’s thorough instructions on how to tie the flower stems together and the unnecessary reminders of what the evening stood for.

“It’s an important holiday, Yuuri,” Phichit began, tone mockingly stiff as if to lecture. “You’re going to be sending your flower crown down the river and leave everything to chance. For all you know, some poor soul will catch your wreath and somehow end up agreeing to marry you.”

“Phichit!” Yuuri nudged Phichit with his elbow, an automatic reflex to admonish such a harsh statement. “Besides, if they really didn’t like me, they could just say no. Which is why I now know never to accept a proposal from you if you ever catch my wreath or vice versa.”

“Alright, fair enough. But I knew that’d catch your attention. So, listen. Just in case no one catches your wreath this year, just remember there’s always next year. I’m sure the Fates have a great future ahead of you if you’d just— ”

“You mean the Rusalki.”

“Okay, yeah, the Rusalki are the ones to guide the wreaths on the right path or sink them. But really, Yuuri, just let me tell my story. And _my_ story involves ignoring the Rusalki’s power in all this and attributing your fate to the deities instead. They’re not that much kinder than the Rusalki, but they’re marginally better, and that’s good enough for me.”

“But that’s not really— ”

“Just take my encouragements. You won’t regret it, I promise! And maybe it’d help you get more in the festive mood if you forgot about the Rusalki for a while. Even if they are the ones somehow deciding our future spouses.”

“Very encouraging, Phichit.” Yuuri sighed. As much as he wanted to protest, he had to give his sincere appreciation. Phichit had a good idea in steering Yuuri away from his life’s work for this holiday, to persuade him to indulge in celebrating and actually gain _some_ joy from it for just this once. It was an effort to protect Yuuri and let him relax from his work for _just this once_. “Thank you.”

“I thought it would be!” Phichit tugged Yuuri closer to the bonfire already burning brightly against the dark sky. “Now, should I wait for you to finish making your flower crown so we can send ours downstream together? Or are you gonna need a while and face the Fates on your own?”

“Probably the latter. You go on ahead; I’ll be a while.” As if in demonstration of his words, Yuuri bent over the cornflowers and slowly tied two stems together only to have one break. The unfortunate thing was that the mistake had not been Yuuri’s original intention, even if it did help his cause.

Phichit took the two flowers from Yuuri and quickly knotted them together again, this time without any imperfections. He handed the two flowers back to Yuuri with the parting, “Good luck! If you need more help, just come find me. But I taught you the simplest method so hopefully you’ll get used to it eventually. See you tomorrow!”

_Tomorrow_.

Yuuri would have to think of a story before he saw Phichit again, something simple to excuse his returning home by the evening’s end.

He waved to Phichit before resuming his attempts to construct the flower crown. It didn’t have to be perfect, appealing enough to catch someone’s attention, it just needed to hold together. And it was clumsy and uneven, broken stems and lost petals and awkward gaps. The links were bulky and some of the blossoms twisted inward, but at the very least it was stable and unmistakably his.

Time was not a great factor here; he had needed the excuse of unpreparedness if he was to enact his plan successfully. He remained bent over his work for long after the last person had abandoned the bonfire for the next turn of the evening. He stood at the riverbank and waited while the last figures downstream waded out from the water, either with a flower crown in hand or their heads bowed in disappointment.

Only when he was alone did Yuuri settle a lit candle in the middle of the wreath to light its way for him and set it in the water.

As the current swept it downstream he followed it, racing parallel along the bank and tripping over the hidden roots of reaching trees so that the flame would never lose his sight. It was carried by the natural flow of the water for some time, undisturbed as long as it remained in the clear waters nearest to his village.

It continued on peacefully as it passed by the fields adjacent to the village.

It continued on peacefully as the water darkened and became murky.

It halted when the water shifted to black, just for a fraction of a second.

Yuuri squinted across the expanse of the river as he tried to comprehend the next movements.

Most didn’t pay much heed to how the currents carried the flowers, trusting them to find their paths in their own manner, but he held his breath in fear of missing a single thing. He had hoped the Rusalki would do exactly this. Would manipulate his flower crown so obviously, would be proven to be the benefactors of Rusalka Night, if only he paid attention.

And they did do this. And they were the benefactors.

Leaning forward, he caught the gentle and unnatural ripple of water that accompanied his flower crown in the dim candlelight. He noticed the flash of pale hands averting the current from its set path and pushing the flower crown toward the riverbank at Yuuri’s feet.

It was a Rusalka.

It had to be.

At least that confirmed the old tale that the Rusalki were responsible for the fate of the flower crowns meant to match one with their soulmate.

But that wasn’t why Yuuri was there.

Heavy white fabric fell from his shoulders, visibly too loose on him though Yuuri had not had the time or concern to tailor it to fit closer. The tunic wasn’t important. It was the red embroidery crowding the hem and collar and sleeves that was the main focus, the concentration of his efforts.

He stepped from the dry earth and let the water rise to his ankles. Meeting his flower crown even further was not necessary. So he waited, trying not to tremble and to hold his ground.

“Oh my, it seems like you let your flower crown go a bit too late.”

“Who…”

“Lost your voice, dear? I have a habit of taking that from such gorgeous people as you. Would you like your flower crown back?”

Yuuri blinked. Stared at him.

“Well, I think you’d like it back. Besides, I can always help you make one to match your beauty.”

A purring voice. Seductive glances. Yuuri remained still even as a hand brushed along his cheek, tangled in his long hair.

The Rusalka gently placed the flower crown on Yuuri’s brow, his fingers lingering there as he fixed the flowers to be more even and straightened Yuuri’s disheveled hair.

“It’s not the prettiest crown I’ve seen, but don’t you make it look lovely?”

A chiming laugh, contagious if it had belonged to anything else.

The candle burned on in the Rusalka’s hand, casting light on his face. Blond hair stained with green at the tips, thin face offset by high cheekbones, an alluring smile. And wide eyes with the palest irises, washed out in silver and almost indistinguishable.

He would have been perfect, ethereal, if but for the eyes.

Yet, he was still drenched in beauty and seduction and knew it.

“Oh come now, won’t you speak to me, my dear? I’ve been waiting for you all night. Why must you ignore me so?”

He moved his hands to drift along Yuuri’s jawbone, down his neck and to the hollow of his collarbones. Head bowed over Yuuri’s, lips still parted. Yuuri didn’t need to see the Rusalka’s eyes to feel his gaze so intently.

“You’re not _scared_ of me, are you? Don’t you know how I wish to take care of you? How much I want to spend my life with you? Your beauty surpasses all that I have seen before. You’re more radiant than the sun, my dear. More elegant than the stars. I’ve only heard your voice so very little and it is already more hypnotic than the rustle of leaves and lapping of water against the banks.”

Yuuri couldn’t stop his trembling. Couldn’t speak or escape.

“I’ve seen so much amber and other treasures in my day, but your eyes shine even brighter. I will never be able to _escape_ your enchantment, will I? You’ve trapped me, my dear, caught me. Won’t you tell me your name? Or speak to me at all? Just a word? It would make me so very happy, and feel so alive.”

“Yuuri.”

It was involuntary. The Rusalka swiped a finger along Yuuri’s bottom lip, leaned his forehead against Yuuri’s. It was dragged from him without thought, automatically, as if to comfort the Rusalka. Yes, _comfort_ , for the Rusalka’s voice was heavy with desperation and longing. A pitiful sound for all of its appeal.

But at Yuuri’s admittance the Rusalka grew joyful again instantly, giving off his uplifting laugh and pulling Yuuri closer. Yuuri came so close to smiling in response, to feeling his own flutter of ecstasy in echo of the Rusalka’s.

So close.

So close, only to be drowned out by the more logical response of _fear_.

Only, what logic did Yuuri have left? What allowed him to have any sense when he found mercy when listening to the pleading voice of a Rusalka? When finding joy in seeing that the Rusalka was happy? There was no reason in humoring a spirit intent on harming him, no sense in trusting every word. But there was reason to find joy when another was happy, wasn’t there?

Wasn’t there?

Yuuri leaned into the Rusalka’s touch. He allowed himself to be drawn in and complimented and touched. He didn’t flinch when the Rusalka clasped his hands behind Yuuri’s back, holding him close. He didn’t protest when the Rusalka told him lies.

He gave up his name when asked. Followed the Rusalka’s command.

“I knew you’d trust me, my beloved. Don’t you know I love you? My Yuuri. Such a beautiful name for a beautiful thing such as yourself. Are you always this brave, to come when no one else will? To see the good in those of us so misunderstood? You’re so brilliant, my Yuuri.”

Yuuri nodded numbly to every word, not fully understanding everything but needing to affirm the Rusalka’s questions and wants at every turn.

And his heart beat loudly in his ears. His breath came too shallowly when he strained to hear every word of the Rusalka. No thought of his own could be held on to when the Rusalka was always replacing his fears.

Everything was wrong.

He couldn’t understand this.

“My Yuuri, my beloved, won’t you come with me? Will you trust me now?”

There came to be a point when his questioning became useless. Yuuri was following his commands, was replacing his thoughts of warning and survival with trust and adoration.

The world around them was forgotten.

The embroidery running along his tunic was forgotten. The candle and his flower crown.

Viktor was forgotten.

If he nodded, agreed vocally, it was pointless. Yuuri didn’t need to give his direct affirmation for the Rusalka to know. What more trust did Yuuri need to place in him? He may not have fallen as easily as the rest, but even Yuuri succumbed to the Rusalka eventually. It was a silent victory, an admission the Rusalka could identify solely by the curiosity and calm in Yuuri’s expression, his eyes.

“Come then, my Yuuri. I have a new life to show you.”

Withdrawing from Yuuri, the Rusalka leaned down to catch Yuuri under his knees and place a hand between his shoulder blades. The river fell away as the Rusalka lifted him in one fluid motion, bearing Yuuri’s full weight without struggle.

And Yuuri complied. He leaned his head against the Rusalka’s chest, reached for the Rusalka’s shoulder with his hand. He let himself be supported entirely, without protest. With complete willingness.

As valid as his willingness could get when Yuuri was at the mercy of the Rusalka.

He put his trust in the Rusalka, was lulled by the promising words and compliments the deeper they dug. The longer they echoed in Yuuri’s mind, until he believed the Rusalka fully without careful reason.

“My dearest Yuuri, aren’t you so divine to trust me? So kind? You’ll be home soon, dear. Just let me be in your good grace for a while longer, I beg of you. Then you’ll be home and safe. Then nothing can harm you and all shall know your beauty.”

For how far into the width of the river that had gotten, the Rusalka had barely made a sound and Yuuri had hardly noticed. But the riverbank he had stood on was far behind them now and the opposite bank no closer. The soft earth had plunged downward while the Rusalka kept them up.

And the Rusalka could be trusted, right?

There was only water beneath them, and no one else in sight, and he hadn’t let go. So surely the Rusalka could be trusted.

Yuuri was at ease with him. He didn’t cling to the Rusalka when doing so might have ensured his safety. He didn’t ask for motives or intentions. He listened to the Rusalka’s purring voice and let control be taken from him.

“I don’t usually take interest in your kind after the first week of June. I have other things to attend to, and I’m so awfully busy. But how could I resist you when I saw you standing there, waiting for your flower crown to pass? You’re so gorgeous, my Yuuri. So irresistible if only one pays attention. How could I not approach you and tell you how lovely you are?”

Yuuri closed his eyes, listened to every word and memorized them. The sweet compliments, the gentle voice of the Rusalka.

“But, my dear, you simply haven’t given me what I wanted. And I’m rather disappointed.”

“Wait. I’m sorry. What can I do?” Yuuri struggled to sit up, to meet the Rusalka’s gaze. He raised his voice to be heard over the Rusalka’s and put a hand to his jawbone, wishing that he could get the Rusalka's attention.

“Nothing more, you’ve done quite enough for now. Perhaps in time you’ll learn. Perhaps you just haven’t had a proper master.”

“Wait, I— ”

The Rusalka didn’t need to hold his breath, to prepare for what was to come. It was abrupt, an interruption to Yuuri’s questions and cries. He still held Yuuri close, flush against his chest, but it was the only effort he gave. And the river accepted them without concern, the water warm from the summer day stifling the world around them and the current loud in their ears. And the Rusalka held Yuuri so close, held him so tightly that he could not kick or shove the Rusalka away.

Darkness pressed above them and at their heels in the river's immensity. The stars had been extinguished completely by the murky depths. Silver moonlight barely filtered through the surface of the water, illuminating nothing but the Rusalka's white eyes and the gleam of golden pinnacles and amber trimmings far below. Under different circumstances Yuuri would have sought out the distant sight, strained to see the hints of a grand and sprawling palace on the river floor, rejoiced in knowing his expedition and innate knowledge of years before was right.

But the Rusalka held him tightly in his grip. And his voice could not carry through the water no matter how loudly he called, never enough to alert anyone in the palace. And how could he focus on some fantastical interest of before when a Rusalka held him tightly now? Threatened to kill him now, with no hope of escaping or being noticed in his fleeting moments?

It was only them.

And only the Rusalka could keep his eyes open, alert, even as he let them both be pulled under by the current. Just as he wanted.

And only Yuuri struggled in vain, and only Yuuri grew weary. He closed his eyes to the dark water, tried to listen past the thrashing currents to any hope of a savior. But he had had no warning, and his energy was spent quickly. There was no comfort, no one to keep him calm and brave in the face of—

Yuuri fought to open his eyes and look about him.

There had been _something_. A breach of the current that somehow was noticed despite his dimming senses. It was more than delusional hope; it was too real. Too near. How could he have felt the shift in water if it wasn’t near?

He felt a hand grip his other arm tightly, even though the Rusalka still tried to keep him in place.

He was aware of the Rusalka’s hold being broken forcefully, wrenching him free.

This was it. This was a relief that did not dawn on him yet, one that he could barely comprehend. How is one supposed to expect to die in such a situation? How is one supposed to maintain the hope to live, to claw the way to the surface and breathe again? With what remaining energy he had left, his pulled himself toward the newcomer, the one desperately yanking him from the Rusalka's grip and upward. Toward air, toward light; Yuuri knew that. He didn't protest when the Rusalka's grip was broken, when the newcomer kept his hold on Yuuri and eluded anymore struggle. It was on instinct. Movement without thought. Automatic trust to the one path that led him to life again.

And that was it. The Rusalka had been abandoned. Yuuri was no longer threatened.

He could let go of his fight in the last. Had to. There was no holding on to the waking world when his energy had been spent so rapidly.

He had fallen unconscious by the time he was thrusted back above the surface.

“— _please_.”

To Yuuri, the elapsed time had been blissfully brief. The pain of deprived lungs and blackness that had tinted the world opaquely had subsided. There were no dreams, no struggle for breath.

There was nothing.

The new voice begging him to wake forced that nothing into something.

The burning in his lungs and throat and eyes returned to him. The heavy weariness that had pulled him into nothing in the first place returned to him. The memory of the previous events, of his deception and fear, had unfortunately begun to explain his condition to him. It was clearer now, away from the Rusalka’s presence and reassuring words.

He wished he could forget the whole evening.

Acting automatically, Yuuri did his best to sit up halfway, just enough for a new wave of pain and discomfort to take his breath away again. Not wanting to tempt such pain anymore, he laid back down. He turned his head to the side, succumbed to the urge to cough, though by now it was just dry heaving. Above him were the lattice patterns of branches and a sky scattered with stars.

“No, you… already coughed it up. Don’t you feel that? I can’t imagine there’s any water left for you to cough up. And that looked like it hurt. Please, Yuuri, stay still for a while.”

Yuuri recognized that voice.

“Can you hear me? Please tell me you can hear me. Nod or something. Anything. Did he do anything else to you? Christophe, he usually—”

“What did I do wrong?” Yuuri’s voice came out hoarse, barely audible. He winced at the pain of speaking after having swallowed so much water without notice, after the lack of breath and forced need to expel said water.

Viktor winced for him as well, though Yuuri couldn’t see that. “Nothing, Yuuri. You did nothing wrong. That was Christophe’s fault. He shouldn’t have done that to you. I’m so sorry. I should have…”

Shaking his head, Viktor resettled so that he was bent over Yuuri. Yuuri met Viktor's gaze reluctantly, saw his eyebrows creased and lips parted as if he had more to say.

What more could Viktor possibly say? Yuuri wasn't even certain he wanted Viktor there now, despite everything that had happened prior.

“No, not that. He said I didn’t do what he wanted.” Regret permeated his voice and sorrow was reflected in his expression.

Viktor stilled at the question. Frustration flickered across his face, briefly, before he calmed himself again. What the expression meant was beyond Yuuri; though he wasn't willing to try to understand Viktor now either. Reality was best left alone for a while. “It’s nothing. Don’t listen to him. Christophe never knows what he wants, alright? And when he does know, he’s _wrong_. Like right now. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Okay…” Yuuri fell silent for a while. He worked on steadying his breathing, on willing the pain away, until he could lean back against his elbows instead. His mind was a jumble of thoughts, to the point where it was silent from incoherence. And when he finally managed to word one question, he said it without hesitation.

“Why were you here? I mean, how did you know to come save me?”

Viktor looked away uneasily. “You didn’t figure it out? I live here, Yuuri. You're old enough to have figured that out by now; you _have_ to be. I noticed when Christophe was absent as I always do. We’ve been here for so long.”

Yuuri sighed, closed his eyes. “I was kinda hoping it wasn’t true.”

There was no maliciousness in Yuuri’s voice, no disappointment. Just simple truth.

So why should Viktor  _flinch_ at the words? What right had he to deny Yuuri's wish as reasonable?

Viktor kept his composure for the most part. There was nothing more beyond his flinching and the forced calm in his expression. He pursed his lips; everything else must have been masked.

Why should Viktor bother returning now, saving him now, if he was going to put up the same front he had years before? The blunt admittance was nothing to Yuuri now, not when frustration stained Viktor's tone and expression. Why should he care of Yuuri when he had certainly never cared enough before?

Only questions plagued him when it came to Viktor. Any answers had rotted into distrust and queries long ago. Nothing made sense here. It hadn't all evening.

Yuuri turned his gaze back to the stars, mouth twisted in the lingering pain and refreshed frustrations. He couldn't face Viktor now, nor had he ever pretended that he was ready. Everything that had happened since he first stepped from the riverbank was unwelcome in retrospect; _why_ did he bother prompting it?

“Why did you come here alone so late? Christophe found you long after everyone else had left the river, didn’t he? I told you to stay away from the Rusalki, and you told me to trust you. There are always exceptions to Rusalka week, don’t you know that? So why did you come?” Viktor said after a moment, voice urgent and strained.

Yuuri passed a hand over his eyes with the realization of how he had failed so miserably. Had wasted the previous years on a worthless experiment. “It’s stupid.”

“I already figured out that part when I saw you in Christophe’s arms. I’m asking for the details.”

Anger started to drip into Viktor's voice and movements. But Yuuri barely noticed; how could he be surprised as he began to understand Viktor better? He hated it, more than the anger and frustration Viktor had already shown: the concern now so evident in Viktor's tone. It had to be shaken off. Ignored. Forgotten.  _Something_. Because reason had told him before not to seek out Viktor, and it was time to start listening again.

He blinked back tears; he needed to place spite above all for once.

“I thought I’d figured out a way to ward off Rusalki. We use embroidery to ward off evil spirits. So why not Rusalki? I messed up somewhere. It obviously didn’t work.” Yuuri stood, trembling and knowing that his steps would be unstable but needing to try anyway.

“Yuuri…” Viktor only glanced up at him, an edge of warning and exasperation showing through how he drew out his name.

“Thank you for saving me but I’ve caused enough trouble for one night. I’m sorry, Vitya. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

Determined to support himself, to catch himself, Yuuri left Viktor behind. The trek back upstream was long and the roots of overreaching trees still snagged at his feet, but he needed to leave. He needed to be alone, and out of Viktor's worrying presence. The moon was still guiding him in silver above, flower petals and forlorn candles choked the translucent water and riverbank by his side, and he was alone as he had been hours before.

He pushed the real events of the evening from his mind, instead trying to create a believable story to tell to Phichit and his family. Saying he had simply finished the flower crown too late, had broken almost all of stems, was an easy answer; he has lost the flower crown to the river's currents anyway. But how could he explain anything else? How could he explain why he was drenched? Why he was now certain of the palace at the river's floor? Of the fact that his embroidery was no doubt riddled with mistakes, where just a day before he had been so confident in his seams?

How was he supposed to excuse the bruises blossoming along his back and knees from the Rusalka's grip and the marks against his arm from Viktor's?

Yuuri had stayed away from the river all of these summers so that his theory, his concrete knowledge, of Viktor could never be fully proven. But now he knew and guessed at far more than he could ever cope with. At the malicious nature that he should have known was irredeemable in the Rusalki.

Whether he could continue his work after this was plain guesswork.

How could he, knowing his embroidery had failed?

But he had to at least return to his village tonight. Try to figure out the evening. Sort it out in his mind. Filter fact from fear.

He had to go back and wait for another winter of sorrow and night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lovely art of this chapter by the wonderful yayyoi is [here](https://yayyoi.tumblr.com/day/2017/05/11/)!!
> 
> ведьма (ved'ma): a witch, but ancient Slavic witches were revered instead of hated or feared  
> волхв (volkhv): a mage (not a very direct translation but the best I can do in English). they perform divine services, can heal people, as well as perform other magic; they're like shamans but more general and less frenzied.  
> \- a колдун is usually born with magic while a волхв learns it. also, they focus more on divine services. this is why Yuuri distinguishes himself as a волхв instead. don't worry too much over it now as the different categories of magic people will be dealt with in the next fic of Victory of the Night. Also, by now I'm sure you all have noticed that I translate Russian words intext!
> 
> \- This isn't where I got my name "vasilek" or "c0rnfl0wer" by the way! Vasily is my middle name and sometimes one of the diminutives (the slang one, lol) gets rendered as василек instead of василёк so I took it; василек happened to mean cornflower. The story is actually mostly attributed to Belarus rather than Russian so, to be honest I didn't know about it until recently. Things kinda just aligned like this... Anyway, you can read the Vasilek story [here](https://books.google.com/books?id=eZvw84yGFecC&pg=PA42&lpg=PA42&dq=cornflower+slavic&source=bl&ots=62Bo92xNAg&sig=sNyrUoKYGtx88qM9p5HrBGKLGcs&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwj0tYXPxr_TAhVs3IMKHQbYBIMQ6AEIRTAJ#v=onepage&q=cornflower%20slavic&f=false) too!  
> \- As I've said, everything will be explained intext sooner or later. But if you really want to know more about Kupala Night see [Meet Me by the River](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10496793) \+ [Red Thread](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10708278) for more on embroidery.
> 
> Thank you for reading (and waiting!) for the second chapter! I have a banner for it on [tumblr](http://c0rnfl0wer.tumblr.com/post/160210971419) btw c;  
> ~Vasya


	3. I'll be Waiting Here for You (summer)

_I don’t care for peace,  
You can’t protect me now.  
I hear the calls that ring so clear  
And yet don’t have me bound.  
I will walk from here to Irij  
Just to learn your truth. _

* * *

  
  
The day dawned without him.  
  
The forest at his back let the sunlight meet him over time. Melodies in birds’ calls had begun when the sky above was still grey and the stars still dimly alight; both were gone now, though the songs remained. The world was drenched in golden light and life, and he had welcomed neither.  
  
Rusalki didn’t need to breathe.  
  
So the constrictions in his chest and throat weren’t concerning. It hurt, worsened throughout the evening, but it wasn’t life-concerning. He felt he couldn’t breathe, though when had he ever bothered to do so? The discomfort tried to consume his attention, but he forced it away time and again. Let his ribs ache, his throat burn, his teeth dig into his lips. Let the worry overcome him in the vilest ways, though to any observer he would have only seemed tense in thought. Not swayed by the pain that actually overwhelmed him.  
  
Rusalki didn’t need to seek company beyond their clan.  
  
Because Rusalka Week had passed, and Kupala Night had come to a close, and the fields no longer needed his supervision and aid. Because the offerings of ribbons and thread were already tapering off as June was chased away from memory with the coming autumn. Because autumn would drive him back underwater, back to sleep, something he was looking forward to now.  
  
Yesterday, the thought of the wind turning frigid was depressing, a thought to be pushed away. Today, it was a relief.  
  
Sleep would be most welcome.  
  
After one more thing.  
  
Copying Yuuri’s movements from hours before, Viktor stood shakily and walked away from where he had sat all morning. From the riverbank that he had pulled Yuuri to and where he had tried his best to waken him. Where he had bowed over Yuuri and tried to figure out what had happened with all the wrong words. The cool river water greeted him, helped tug him below the surface at a time when energy didn’t come so easily.  
  
He knew where Christophe was.  
  
In dark waters, only golden pinnacles and amber trimmings could catch the diluted sunlight and reflect it. Rough hewn walls carved over the centuries with stories swathed in symbols only translatable to them, silver inlaid to replace the areas where the gold grew bare, a thousand jewels forced into the walls and roofs with shoddy craftsmanship as they were stolen from the pockets and jewelry of corpses. Amber was abundant; they were careful not to use it beyond the decor. They had put so much effort into keeping their palace free of stains and fading, and so it stood as bright as it had when it was first built. Walls could be replaced with care, new jewels hammered in. They couldn’t let what prestigious reputation they did still have be lost.  
  
A few fragments of bone crowded beside the doorstep, jagged and now half-buried in sand. _Mila’s_. They had been there since the beginning of June and still she had not at least taken them inside. He should move them already, hide the tragedy from such an obvious sight; he didn’t want to touch them.  
  
He looked past to the doors, taller than him and etched in with all of their names, pushed inside and searched the halls. Christophe had always been one to become bored easily, to stay awake longer than the others and act out of turn. He was the most open to forming new habits and breaking the old traditions. Viktor was almost unsure as whether to be surprised that he did find Christophe in his room at the end of the search.  
  
How could he return to his room so simply, carry on as if nothing had happened, after last night?  
  
Viktor leaned against the doorframe for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts. He had to take life one task at a time right now. Save Yuuri, express his concern, try to comprehend their conversation, find Christophe.  
  
And then what?  
  
There had to be some way to capture his fury. Words or actions or both or just ignoring Christophe completely. Because there was a lot still so inexplicable and _wrong_ in what he had seen the night before. There had to be some way to begin, to let the anger take over. Disgust had to subside at some point, allow him his freedom back from its catatonic grip.  
  
He sighed. Brushed his hair away from his eyes. Tried to find the words futilely.  
  
This wasn’t one of those times that he could think about his words beforehand with success.  
  
“You…”  
  
It was enough for Christophe to jump up from where he had been perched on his bed. He had probably been getting ready to sleep, though Viktor didn’t mind interrupting that just this once. Christophe grinned at him, hands up in surrender and a word of nonchalant regret already on his lips. Viktor cut him off with a glare and forced himself to start again.  
  
“You don’t get to do that and not tell me why this time. I stay out of your affairs most of the time, you know that. I’ve let you do all… _this_ . Everything. Without a word. But I need an explanation this time. More, actually.”  
  
“Vitya, you don’t— ”  
  
“Because you’ve never done _anything_ like this. You’ve never tried to _drown_ someone after the first week of June. Not to my knowledge. And you spend every Kupala Night with the rest of us, doing what we’re supposed to do. So what was so different about this time? What made you meddle now, of all times, with someone? So maliciously? And to my Yuuri of all people?”  
  
“Wait, he was…? I mean, when I heard his name I just thought…”  
  
“That’s not even the point right now! Forget about Yuuri for a moment, because there’s something wrong with you if you’re seeking people out like that when you shouldn’t feel inclined to anymore. Just answer that, if there was even any reason behind it.”  
  
Viktor took a few steps forward, squared his shoulders. He didn’t want to speak right now. And could barely stand to look at Christophe when the previous night was still so prominent in his mind.  
  
“What can I say, Vitya?” Christophe shrugged, tried to give Viktor an apologetic look that ultimately failed. “I just can’t resist the pretty ones.”  
  
Viktor had also grown rather used to things not working out as he wanted.  
  
He ignored Christophe’s steps backward as he raced forward. He grabbed Christophe’s upper arms, forced his blank eyes to meet Viktor’s, forced all of his attention to be on Viktor. And Christophe let it happen, stayed still for Viktor. This was no time to deny him attention, not when Viktor was this angry. Not when Viktor had always stayed calm before.

And there was so much he could say to that response, because Viktor read every ounce of disrespect and disinterest in Christophe’s voice. He had wanted the first words to have come from his lips to be a lecture on Christophe’s actions, on killing wantonly and how much it had and would continue to hurt Yuuri even when life was still his. Of how much Christophe had hurt Viktor by trying that, though Viktor tried to swallow his own problems for Yuuri’s sake.

But what was the point?

There was no convincing the importance of life to someone who had forgotten how to breathe and feel pain completely. Christophe had settled into this life, embraced it now, and Viktor could only keep so much faith in him. Christophe couldn’t understand. He never had anyone to worry about, not anymore. Why would Christophe care for one human? Yuuri was nothing to Christophe. He was prey and pleasure at best until boundaries were set by Viktor, but when had Viktor ever been so distressed over the very thought of lost life before?

Viktor never breathed. That morning was the first time he had felt physical pain in so long.

Viktor mourned and regretted the nature of his existence, but never had he become so numb over the thought of a human dying. Never had he felt pain in response to someone’s being lost, even if the guilt did cling to him; it had never been as all-consuming as this renewed worry for Yuuri. He couldn’t say he was as uncaring as Christophe could be, no, but he had always kept his disapproval to snide remarks and ignorance, not in insisting on new boundaries. He had always set his precedents in actions, not in exerting control over others.

But there was a breaking point even for Viktor.

Perhaps Christophe would never understand death. Had forgotten what loss was. It was a wasted effort to try and intervene on these differences now when Viktor had never taken such drastic steps before, but he had to draw the line in one way or other. And if Christophe disregarded Yuuri’s importance, then Viktor would have to give the reason of selfish whim for why he warned Christophe way now, after all these centuries of excused abuse and death.  
  
“Yuuri isn’t some _pretty one_ to you. He’s the only human to have treated me with any decency and kindness in centuries. And you’ve ruined that twice now. But you really ruined it this time. He already knew to not trust me this time, not like a few years ago, but still. He _hates_ me now. He must. I can’t… what he said to me earlier was harsh, and you caused that.”  
  
Viktor tightened his grip on Christophe unconsciously.  
  
“I know he should hate me, don’t say it. But you couldn’t have let me have some kindness? For just a little longer? You ruined everything. I couldn’t tell him from the beginning because of you, because everything you do now. And now it’s impossible to get him to listen again. He just… You couldn’t have just left him alone for a little longer? Could have let me have…”  
  
“The _decency_ you used to get from them?” Christophe drawled. He swept Viktor’s hands away, severed their contact lightly. “Stop living in the past, Vitya. It’s best if he stays away from us, you. You said so yourself. Honestly, you can stop this charade now. You try to act like a god but in the end, even you kill people. Yuuri should be staying away from you. And the only reason he trusted you before was because he didn’t know, you know that. So look, he knows better now and he’s still alive. You saved the only human you actually like. What more could you want?”  
  
Viktor winced, tried weakly to reject the words but failed. “Better than this.”  
  
“Just leave, Vitya. You need to calm down a bit.”  
  
“No.” Viktor looked away for a moment before meeting Christophe’s concerned gaze again. “I need a way to fix this.”  
  
“I don’t think— ”  
  
“You volunteered to help me when you tried to _drown_ him. You can do your share next year to repay me for stopping you from seeing something really foolish to the end and for my not killing you in death as well. I’ll let you know later about the rest. Just don’t cause anymore trouble in the meantime.” Viktor flashed Christophe a brilliant grin and left his room promptly.  
  
After taking an old bottle of vodka from Christophe’s stash.  
  
Viktor would be spending the next night on the surface no doubt.  
  
But now was the time for sleep, however disappointingly brief. He couldn’t stand to be near Christophe any longer until everything was set right; he couldn’t be left alone with the thoughts of the night before. Not when he was conscious.  
  
So he slept the days away and lost himself in whatever alcohol his clan had been able to steal from humans over the years, interspersing those evenings through the remainder of the summer as their store had never been great to begin with. There was nothing else to do for the summer, nothing to worry about or distract himself with when it was wearing on to a close. And when autumn came, when it finally came, he accepted it with relief and a concern that had never struck him before.  
  
Viktor had realized early on what had to happen for him to get any semblance of tolerance from Yuuri again, at least during time he had free after June’s first few days. It was the details of how to accomplish this that kept him uneasy.

* * *

  
  
Where Mila had abandoned Georgi, Emil eventually realized they had a newcomer and stayed close to him.  
  
Emil had been there for almost as long as Viktor had, which was an impressive feat for a Mavka. Most had either come much later or had already been released from their bitter existence through reconciliation long ago. But Emil had stayed, had been stained with green in skin and hair and eyes. The water had seeped into his bones and tinted him after so many centuries, yet he didn’t mind it. The organs within his back were visible to all, yet he didn’t mind it. His clothes were poor and threadbare, yet he didn’t mind it. He had taken his decay in stride.  
  
Human culture branded him as a murderer and malicious, though Viktor swore he had only ever seen Emil try to drown someone once. It also seemed to be what preyed on him the most. His increasingly distorted appearance never seemed to bother him as much as the word of others, though he maintained his smile and cheeriness and kept the rest of his feelings near indiscernible.  
  
The other Mavki had been quite happy to ostracize him over time, deeming him out of their league and unnaturally different when he never claimed his own victims. He won dozens of games and stole everyone’s attention during their dances and was easily one of the most attractive among their numbers despite his green tint. But he was sympathetic for a Mavka and often admitted that he had never felt the need for retribution. He was fine as he was, even as the others gave him odd glances. He maintained his smile and cheeriness and kept his feelings near indiscernible.  
  
_Near indiscernible_ , because after watching him for centuries during the nights of June, Viktor had become acquainted with Emil well enough from the distance.  
  
There was more to Emil, which was why Viktor was thankful that he had finally reached out to Georgi.  
  
For all of her apparent loneliness, Mila had fallen into the Mavki’s habit quickly. She took it up with the rest in her hurt and rage and was not above taunting Emil and now Georgi over their shortcomings in the sport. And no one could stand Georgi’s laments over someone named _Anya_ , and to have Emil preoccupied and not trying to steal attention was something to be thankful for as far as the other Mavki were concerned. They were the differences in the Mavki community that Viktor had never thought to expect.  
  
From where Viktor watched in his usual tree, he caught snippets of Emil and Georgi’s conversation during the following Rusalka Week.  
  
“Perhaps the Rusalka life just isn’t for you, Gosha. Is there any way to resolve your issues so that you could be released?” His voice was so obviously played up to sound wise.  
  
“Not unless Anya joins me, I’ve told you. Listen, it’s been a few years, but surely she has been looking for me. Maybe it’s just taking her awhile to realize where I am. Then she’ll come to me and join me where I sleep.”  
  
“Sure, that might happen.” Emil turned away from Georgi. “Or, maybe we can focus on some way to alleviate your, um, pain, while you’re still awake with the rest of us. Aren’t you even a little mad at Mila, maybe? We can start there and— ”  
  
“No, I came here willingly. I _wanted_ Mila to take me. And I don’t regret it.” Georgi sighed, loudly enough for even Viktor to hear. “Besides, how would _Mila_ help me move on? It’s Anya that must realize that only she can release me from this wretched existence and join me.”  
  
Viktor winced, leaned away so that he was out of earshot.  
  
Georgi would move past this stage within a couple of centuries.  
  
Hopefully.  
  
In the meantime, Viktor was grateful that it was Emil to be the one to comfort Georgi; he had never been particularly good at that part of socializing himself. Not with the Mavki.  
  
Christophe settled down next to Viktor a moment later, leaning forward and hands still braced against the branch in signal that he wouldn’t be staying long. Viktor considered him for a moment, waiting for Christophe to start. They hadn’t been very close for the past couple of years, not since Christophe had met Yuuri.

What was a couple of years to their centuries-long relationship? Time would pass quickly, Christophe would forget the cause even if Viktor never did, and so it goes.  
  
Viktor was still having a difficult time moving on from the subject and felt justified in his position; Christophe didn’t argue with that. He let Viktor figure things out for himself, his relationship with Yuuri and what he could ever expect to happen, and kept his distance. He took the blame onto his own shoulders, uncaring, until he felt wrongly accused.  
  
The excuse of Yuuri’s “enticing appearances” was still vivid and referred to whenever Viktor accused Christophe of trying to take a victim so carelessly, unfairly. It came back up immediately whenever Viktor tried to ask why on Kupala Night, of all nights. Why with Yuuri, of all humans.

They hadn’t been able to get very far beyond that part of the argument since it had first began. Viktor was too disgusted with reality and Christophe a bit too integrated.  
  
But now Christophe approached Viktor. After almost two years of Viktor carrying most of the conversation himself, Christophe finally initiated it. Pushed it forward.  
  
“You can’t wait forever, Vitya,” Christophe started, looking down at the others. “Humans grow old quickly and whatnot. And you’ve already let one summer slip by. Have you decided on everything yet?”  
  
Viktor shook his head. “I’m still working out the details.”  
  
“No, you already figured those out a long time ago. Come now, Vitya, when have you ever been one to be anything but spontaneous around that kid? Any normal Rusalka would have forgotten about him by now or worse back during the moments you two were together. And here you are still agonizing over him. If you don’t bother to do it now, you never will.”  
  
“Yeah, I know, Christophe. But he didn’t exactly seem very welcoming of me the last time we met. There’s no way he’d want to see me now. So how am I supposed to approach him?”  
  
“You let me approach him first.”  
  
Viktor scoffed, looking to Christophe with a look of disbelief and questioning. “Seriously? You almost killed Yuuri and now you seek him out? Absolutely not.”  
  
“Oh… right.” Christophe backtracked on his thinking until realization lit up his expression. “So, not me. But someone else. Someone way more trustworthy that will seem inviting to Yuuri.”  
  
“Either Emílek or Gosha, I’m guessing?”  
  
“What? You seriously think Gosha— Vitya, Gosha has been crying about one human for years. He’s the most incompetent Mavka I’ve ever seen. No, I meant Emílek. He’s non-threatening.”  
  
“And green.”  
  
Christophe shrugged. “Well, I guess you’re gonna have to decide between either sending Yuuri a green spirit or a murderous one.”  
  
Viktor brushed back his hair. “Right. Emílek it is.”  
  
“Good. I trust you have some form of a plan to carry you through the rest of it then?”  
  
“You already know I do.”  
  
“Alright. Anyway, you go take care of that and I’ll— ”  
  
“Wait, Christophe.” Viktor took a deep breath, tried to steady himself. “If I’m going to actually be doing this, I need to know: what happened with you and Yuuri that night? I mean, the details. Everything that happened before.”  
  
Christophe leaned back again, repositioned himself on the branch. Where once he had been ready to leave quickly, he now prepared himself for the next few moments in every way. “Are you sure? You’ve never asked about the rest of the night before.”  
  
“Yeah, just tell me.”  
  
For Viktor’s sake, Christophe tried to summarize most of the night, didn’t draw anything out. He skipped over most of the dialogue, how he didn’t look at Yuuri the entire time they were underwater, focused instead on inane details like how crooked and broken Yuuri’s flower crown had been. Only when Viktor pressed for more did he deliver, reluctantly.  
  
They were still supposed to be friends, after all, and Christophe’s hesitation in telling him the heavier truths was not lost on Viktor.  
  
And when he had finally finished, cutting short at when Viktor had taken Yuuri from him, Viktor sat silent for a moment, letting everything sink in before speaking again.  
  
“How come you decided to drown him right then? It sounded like you two were talking up until then. Did he say something wrong?”  
  
His voice was monotone, hushed, numb. He didn’t look at Christophe but kept his gaze on the ground below him. It took a lot for him to relive that night, to hear everything that had come before his arrival and of _Yuuri_ from another Rusalka.  
  
But it was even more overwhelming to hear it from Christophe. His greatest friend, the one who had stood beside him the longest. The one who had disappointed him so much in one night. The one that had always understood him so well, even now.  
  
Viktor didn’t truly need to ask to know the answer. He already knew it. But how could he not ask? Because the realization took so much of him to fully comprehend and accept. Because the answer had been so unbearable for him ever since having heard Yuuri ask the same question. He couldn’t cope with knowing for sure; he had to ask regardless. He had to understand somehow.  
  
_“What did I do wrong?”_  
  
That’s what Yuuri had said. And there were so many ways to interpret the question, and no further details had been supplied; not that Viktor was sure he wanted them. It could have been in reference to Christophe choosing him. Or as to why his embroidery had failed. Or why Christophe decided to abandon him in the last.  
  
It was ambiguous.  
  
Except, Viktor had been around other Rusalki far more vicious than he was enough to figure that it was the last question. He had never heard disappointment in being seduced by a Rusalka; all of the humans he had heard in their final moments were always so grateful. Surely Yuuri was the same, surely he couldn’t feel such a disappointment so soon after being lulled by Christophe’s voice.  
  
No. The times when Viktor heard disappointment and regret and shame in the voices of the victims were when the Rusalka told them of their fate outright. When they said they were done with their victims in such a straightforward manner. That was when the victims screamed and pleaded and begged for reconsideration. For answers as to why they had not been approved of in the end, and whether they were destined to become Mavki themselves or not. Surely Yuuri was the same, surely he felt disappointment and agony in his being abandoned by Christophe.  
  
Because that’s how their seduction worked, didn’t it?  
  
They made humans fall in love with them then cast them aside. Didn’t mind their pain and misery during death, in knowing it was coming and having to go through it alone, dejected.  
  
And that’s what Yuuri had been facing right then, hadn’t it?  
  
Rejection by someone he thought he loved and death at their hands.  
  
“Well, no. He didn’t do something wrong. It’s what he didn’t do.” He gave a meaningful look to Viktor. But when he was met with a scowl he continued, as if Viktor hadn’t already understood what he meant. “I like some fun before they die, you know that. It’s pleasant for me and I imagine it makes death a little easier for them. But Yuuri seemed to disagree. I simply wasn’t getting that vibe from him. And really, if we’re not gonna get some pleasure from the experience, I might as well get it over with.”  
  
Viktor shook his head and grimaced. He had asked for the answer; he wished he hadn’t. What Christophe wanted to do before their deaths didn’t involve Viktor, and it should never have involved Yuuri.  
  
“Judge all you want, Vitya, but I was just being courteous. What was I supposed to do? Beg him for more before killing him? He had already gone through enough.” Christophe shrugged, shook off the responsibility. “Anyway, the night is growing old, I better go. Talk to Emílek.”  
  
Long after Christophe had left, Viktor slipped from his perch and called for Emil. Emil came alone, to Viktor’s muffled relief.  
  
“Would you be free on Kupala Night, Emílek? Just in the early evening? I have a favor to ask and I thought you’d be the best to help me.”  
  
Emil shrugged, grinned. “Sure! What’d you have in mind?”

* * *

 

On midsummer day, Viktor stayed awake to construct a flower crown.  
  
It was a romantic idea, if perhaps hopeless. _Chervona Ruta_. Centuries of existence surrounded by the forest gave Viktor the knowledge on where they grew best and first hand experience of their charm. The flower crown he constructed consisted of their long yellow petals, carefully hiding away green stems. But tonight was Kupala Night. And on Kupala Night, when midnight approached, the petals would turn from yellow to red, though only for a few brief moments. It was no wonder that superstitions rose in their wake; stories of how the flowers would bring joy and love to anyone who possessed them. Stories that Viktor knew to be true from watching over them for centuries.  
  
If Yuuri accepted the flower crown he would be far more than gorgeous.  
  
He would be happy.

And with no risk; a clean apology that Viktor could manage and that Yuuri would survive. The first week of June could never be trusted, not when it was not just him who left the river. Nor was the rest of summer completely free of their threat when the Mavki had such malevolence. But aside from Christophe's blunder, there was never such harm on Kupala Night, when the Rusalki were preoccupied in the river and far from the humans. He could send for Yuuri safely, meet and protect him on this night far better than any other night. How could his plan not work, not allow him to talk to Yuuri and set things right?  
  
Just before the bonfires of Kupala Night were lit, Viktor sent Emil to Yuuri’s village with the flower crown and complete instructions of what he looked like. And with a question of whether Yuuri would consider forgiving him for the past. Viktor waited impatiently at the riverbank in the meantime, wondering every once in awhile whether Emil should have been back by now. He paced along the bank and tried to find some distraction in Christophe and waited. His mind might as well have been silent altogether as every thought was fleeting, forgotten quickly.  
  
He hadn’t slept in a while; the weariness was ignored with the anticipation.  
  
And when the moon had risen and the light receded to let the stars shine through, Emil returned with a frown and the flower crown still in hand.  
  
Viktor didn’t have to ask. No, his disappointment in the perceived outcome was portrayed plainly enough, head bowed and lips parted as if his asking anyway could change the truth. Emil shifted uncomfortably and held out the flower crown.  
  
“I tried but he turned me away once he saw me. It probably didn’t help that I waited until he was alone but… He wouldn’t even accept it.”  
  
“Well, did he say anything?”  
  
Emil shrugged. “He just told me to leave him alone. Nothing more. He walked away before I could say anything else.”  
  
“I see. Thank you.”  
  
Emil nodded and left him.  
  
And Viktor accepted it, took it in stride as well as he could. How could he argue if Yuuri didn’t wish to come? How could he do anything but thank Emil when Emil had treated Yuuri so well and left when told? All he could do now was adjust his planning and wait for the next summer.  
  
In his hands, the flower crown turned into a brilliant red color, though he didn’t pay much attention to it.  
  
On the next year’s midsummer day, Viktor stayed awake and constructed a second flower crown.  
  
Though there was still a magical tint to them, the clovers Viktor made the next crown from did not have the same connotation as the Chernova Ruta. Instead, raskovnik was chosen for the second Kupala Night. It was well known that raskovnik could unlock anything, though only chthonic creatures were able to find it — which worked well for Viktor. So, hoping their meaning and use would not be lost, Viktor bundled the raskovnik together into a wreath, a mess of green leaves and stems and little other color.  
  
With Emil already denied, Viktor approached Christophe to be the one to deliver the crown and message this time.  
  
“And what makes you think he’ll accept me?” Christophe’s tone was dripping with disbelief. “I’m worse than Emil to him, you know, if last year proves anything. Which you seem to have forgotten since you're asking me to do this now even though last year you rejected my being involved.”  
  
“I know but... Maybe now he won’t recognize you?” Viktor flinched; he knew the illogic in this.  
  
But who else had he ever been able to trust?  
  
The majority of their clan was Mavki, only Mavki. Christophe wasn’t. No, not quite on the same page as Viktor, but closer than any other Rusalka had come. He had tried to harm Yuuri already, but how could Viktor expect a Mavka to not do the same? He had broken Viktor’s trust already, but who else was there?  
  
In the end, he could at least hope that Christophe would not hurt him any further. Neither Yuuri _nor_ Viktor.  
  
There was no one else to turn to. There was no further trust to rely on.  
  
This was it.  
  
Christophe stared at him for a moment, visibly on the cusp of laughing but reigning in his reaction. “Any alternative plans?”  
  
“Um…” Viktor shrugged, looked away. “That’s what Emil did. He went and talked to him. I thought you would do the same?”  
  
“And he also promptly told Emil off and left. Have some decency, Vitya. That boy is never gonna want to see me again. Or any Rusalka, I imagine. Are you really so set on reaching Yuuri that you’re willing to send _me_ to him?”  
  
Viktor paused for a moment. Then, finally, “Yes.”  
  
“ _Why_?” Christophe leaned back. His voice had jumped up a few octaves and he put a hand to his lips. He steadied his voice considerably before he spoke again. “I mean, maybe you haven’t thought this through fully. It’s not easy getting close to humans for all the obvious reasons, but that’s not even my main concern here. It's not like you to leave us and find someone alive you want to protect, Vitya.”  
  
_Alive_.  
  
And Viktor almost stood up, almost left in his first reaction. Almost dismissed Christophe and the rest of the plan for the one word alone.  
  
But he stayed, bit his lip, and strengthened his resolve.  
  
That word alone was why Viktor also had to stay and press forward. Had to ignore every truth and insinuation and hint of self-deceit. Had to utilize every method of smoothing over their existence, to keep healing old wounds that could never simply scar and fade. Because Christophe was the closest to Viktor in nature but not close enough, and it was worth fighting to remember that. And because remembering that was the only way to remember himself, to not be caught up in the games of his clan.  
  
This was it.  
  
“Sometimes it’s better to remember that little detail as the opposite.” There was no need to clarify himself, not on this. Christophe was silent but his recognition of the subject was obvious from the start. “Besides, even if I can’t protect him any longer, I have to apologize somehow. I don’t know if he’ll ever come back here so that I can tell him myself, but he deserves an apology, doesn’t he? Maybe this would’ve all been different if I had just told him from the beginning.”  
  
“And you thought _that_ was protecting him? By lying? Oh, you have changed,” Christophe drawled, settling back after his prior reactions.  
  
Viktor shifted uncomfortably, lowered his voice. “I’m not sure I’d call it that. But I probably scared him enough when I first met him so I said nothing, and after that… He was already suspicious of me. I didn’t think I should tell him. Only, in hindsight…”  
  
“In hindsight you acted like a fool?”  
  
“Yes, thank you Christophe.”  
  
“So you’re doing all this just to _apologize_ to him?”  
  
“Yeah, mostly.” Viktor shrugged. His gaze was still averted, his lip sore from biting it. What more could Christophe demand to know?  
  
Christophe narrowed his eyes for a moment but ultimately decided to let it go. “Alright, so if the plan is to give him a flower crown but he can’t see me, how about this: I’ll just go leave it wherever Emil saw him. Considering you tried to give him a flower crown last year I’m sure he’ll understand that this one is from you, too. And hopefully appreciate it considering the one I saw him make for Kupala Night before was, well, frankly _terrible_.”  
  
“Really?” Viktor looked up immediately, brightening at Christophe’s offer and ignoring the rest. “You’ll do this?”  
  
“Yes, I’ll go fix your mistakes. And maybe this will repay you for mine. I’ll tell you what happened when I get back, but right now I need to go wake Emil up.”  
  
Christophe waved off any further questions from Viktor, grabbed the wreath sitting in front of Viktor, and left promptly.  
  
And for the second Kupala Night, Viktor waited impatiently at the threshold of the forest where he and Yuuri had once met in the meantime, wondering every once in awhile whether Christophe should have been back by now. He paced along the path and tried to find some distraction in watching the sky slowly blend into the blue of twilight and straining to listen for noise coming from those participating in Kupala Night. His mind might as well have been silent altogether as every thought was fleeting, forgotten quickly.  
  
He hadn’t slept in a while; the weariness was ignored with the anticipation.  
  
And when the moon had risen and the remaining daylight had receded to let the stars shine through, Christophe returned with a frown and empty hands.  
  
“Well?” Viktor asked bluntly, not daring to read too much into Christophe’s expression though he couldn’t help it. He didn’t need the flower crown to return to him to understand that the plan had failed yet again. But still he yearned for some reason, some explanation that would prove satisfactory.  
  
“It didn’t go well, Vitya. I asked Emil where he had seen Yuuri last year and he told me. I laid the flower crown on Yuuri’s doorstep and left before anyone could notice me. And I waited all evening at the river to see if your flower crown would be given back, just in case he decided to answer that way, but I never saw it again. I even checked to see whether it had been taken from the doorstep; it had. I’m not really sure what you were expecting to happen but whatever it was, I’m guessing he didn’t know how to answer.”  
  
He studied Viktor for a moment, noticing the disappointment and hopeless realization that had overwhelmed him for the past few years and showed through his worn appearance.  
  
“There’s always next year, Vitya.”  
  
It was all Christophe could say before he turned away.  
  
Viktor had not slept the previous day so that he could string together the raskovnik wreath, and he did not sleep the next day in his fretting over Yuuri’s response or lack thereof. It was only when he had decided to try again, and had thought of a new plan for the next Kupala Night, that Viktor let himself rest.  
  
And he slept for the remainder of the summer and throughout autumn and winter.  
  
On the next Kupala Night, Viktor stayed awake during the day and constructed a third and final flower crown.  
  
He couldn’t keep trying to garner Yuuri’s attention and forgiveness after this. It would be unfair to Yuuri, would only serve to be an unpleasant reminder of the past. Would only reflect poorly on Viktor. And Viktor knew there was a limit; this plan would be it. The first year had been rejected before Emil had been able to convey his message. The second year had been left without an answer in any way, for any route that did lead back to the Rusalki was not taken. The third year’s plan was straightforward, forthcoming of the full truth and allowing an answer. The third year would lead to either acceptance or rejection, and it would be the final answer.  
  
He could ask no more of Yuuri than to listen again. And if he was accepted, he would try to make amends.  
  
And if he was rejected, he would leave Yuuri be from then on. Why drag Yuuri into a future he didn’t want? Why exacerbate his own grief by calling on Yuuri, the reason and reminder of his grief, for the rest of Yuuri’s days? There was no solace in such a future, but it was a future his alone to bear.  
  
They did not grant true love like the Chervona Ruta flower crown, or unlock objects like the raskovnik wreath, but he put his all into making a cornflower wreath. Only history and sentimentality bound him to do this; it had been the flower he had given to Yuuri and the flower that Yuuri had returned. And it was the flower Yuuri had fashioned into a wreath for Kupala Night, according to Christophe. Before, only favoritism and abundance by the river had led him to adorn his hair with cornflowers, but there was more now. There was a connection to Yuuri that he wanted to keep with Yuuri, that he had not entrusted to anyone else.  
  
And so he asked no one else to carry this flower crown for him. No one else to speak with Yuuri.  
  
Subtlety would have to make way for bluntness, a code he had never been so hesitant to use before. Who had ever dared stop Viktor from having his way before, and actually succeeded? Who had ever had the patience or confidence to restrict what he said when he had always been at the forefront of the clan? Yet Yuuri was inevitably different, as he figured all humans must be; their culture and communication and bold nature were still a mystery to Viktor.  
  
They had always been a mystery, but his close encounters with Yuuri were different. Surprising. In the place of fear he was met with curiosity. And a few years down the line, in the place of fear he was met with unfettered rage and rejection. Even bashfulness in both accounts if he looked hard enough, though Viktor always pushed those readings aside in his own fears of having his hopes dashed.  
  
_“Thank you for saving me but I’ve caused enough trouble for one night. I’m sorry, Vitya. I’m sorry to have bothered you."_  
  
It had been a difficult phrase to stop from echoing in his mind since he had first heard it. It still haunted him as he carried the new flower crown into the village alone.  
  
No, Viktor had never confessed to understanding humans. He didn’t understand how Yuuri could take the blame for what was Christophe’s fault. He couldn’t tell whether Yuuri scorned him completely when he had ended their interaction with an apology, with the previous adornment of cornflowers lost only because of the river’s current. Whether Yuuri wanted Viktor in his presence ever again was a question he wasn’t sure he could bear the answer to, but neither did he know it.  
  
And he needed to apologize.  
  
So he would go on his own and confront Yuuri himself and say everything he needed to. He would beg pardon for his existence, if only not to be greeted with fear for a while. To be in the good graces of the boy who had once shyly given him flowers and reminded him of life again.  
  
Because his world had faded with every passing century and he needed some reminder of what it was to be alive. And talking with Yuuri had been like breathing for the first time again. Relieving. Cathartic. Beautiful after so long of being confined to stagnant waters.  
  
Because Yuuri was the briefest reminder of a promising past, the hope of it returning to him, and it was difficult to let go of such kindness. It was impossible to let go of the first thing he had wanted to protect in so long.  
  
He ended up passing the village by, having arrived later than he should have. Muffled candles shown through a few windows and off toward where the river bent and gave space for such a gathering, the bonfires lit for Kupala Night were slowly burning down to embers.  
  
It was where he found Yuuri.  
  
Whatever vague plans he had for his opening speech to Yuuri were quickly discarded when he saw him. He was the last figure left at one of the bonfires, kneeling on the ground and squinting as he fixed the embroidery he was working over. He wet the red thread in his hand, forced it through the eye of the needle, tried a particular seam again before stopping to consider it for a long moment.  
  
Viktor stayed quiet as he neared the bonfire, craning his neck to see the symbol Yuuri was embroidering. Yuuri didn’t look up, didn’t notice him in his concentration.  
  
So Viktor had to speak.  
  
“You need to stop using that embroidery of yours, it won’t work. It’s filled with your symbols and meanings, not ours. I can teach you ours, if you will let me.”  
  
Viktor stopped in front of Yuuri, flower crown still held out carefully before him, and watched Yuuri. He offered a bare apology when Yuuri had startled, throwing the fabric down and shifting to peer at Viktor in the dark. For his convenience, Viktor edged further into the dimming light, waiting until Yuuri had clearly recognized him before kneeling in front of him.  
  
Perhaps it would be best to introduce one topic at a time, and surely the flower crown would be the easiest. It was physical, easy to explain, a way to mend the relationship. He thrust it forward, an offer for Yuuri to take it.  
  
“Since you didn’t accept my first flower crown, and I’m not entirely sure whether you received my second, I’m bringing you this one. As my apology.”  
  
He looked toward the flower crown pointedly, waiting for Yuuri to take it. This was customary, right? Hadn’t he done right by Yuuri this time?  
  
But Yuuri only scrambled back, abandoning his embroidery carelessly. His eyes widened and he struggled for words before issuing a disbelieving “I can’t accept that!”  
  
_Oh_.  
  
Viktor let the cornflowers drop from his hands; he could fetch them later. If he even really wanted them back.  
  
He had misunderstood everything. Or he had been insensitive. Or something, because Yuuri wore an expression of such shock and horror. Yuuri kept his eyes averted, wouldn’t acknowledge Viktor beyond his brief and loud rejection. It was enough to make Viktor momentarily weaken in his resolve, to reconsider his words as an even more bitter disappointment met him.  
  
Yuuri didn’t want him here.  
  
He never should have come.  
  
Viktor settled more comfortably where he sat, legs crossed, as he waited for Yuuri to speak again. Because this couldn’t be it, right? Just a rejection with no further explanation?  
  
Had he not done right by Yuuri at least this time?  
  
The seconds between Yuuri’s initial reaction and following response felt like an eternity. The waiting was wearying at best, yet more taxing and concerning in reality. And the message was clear enough on just how much he had ruined any chance for a renewal of their friendship. He didn’t know how, but he had been careless. Yuuri didn’t want him here, didn’t want his apologies after all that had happened.  
  
And how could Viktor blame him?  
  
He never should have come.  
  
“I mean, how can you expect me to accept that? Especially with you… y’know…” Yuuri gestured at Viktor. “I know it’s Kupala Night but you can’t just offer that to me! I mean, for a few different reasons. Sorry if you expected something but I… I can’t accept that at all!”  
  
Yuuri buried his face in his hands; Viktor leaned away.  
  
Should he leave?  
  
The extended response had only raised more questions for Viktor.  
  
“Especially with me…” Viktor repeated, eyebrows furrowed. He didn’t know how to respond to the rest just yet.  
  
“What happened to your tunic?” _Flustered_. That was new.  
  
“Why? No one died tonight, did they? Besides, I’ve been working on a new one and I’m not finished yet and I usually save my tunics for June anyway.”  
  
“Because you’re not… How did nobody see you?”  
  
It was vague, but enough for Viktor to start to remember some stories that Mila had told him not long ago. How humans typically preferred women’s hair to be in braids or covered and for all to be dressed. _Right_. It was admittedly easy to forget that detail among the others of his clan, when he rarely saw humans more than a couple of times a year.  
  
At least his lack of a tunic and anything else explained the fluster. Though he didn’t particularly care to shift his position to something less revealing or leave entirely either; those notions barely occurred to him and were quickly dismissed. Why should he have thought any different after so long?  
  
But that couldn’t explain the rest, it simply couldn’t. Not such a strong reaction and immediate rejection. Part of him was surprised Yuuri hadn’t left yet considering his apparent discomfort with being there, though he wasn’t ready to challenge this either. He just needed an explanation, some reasoning, a way to apologize that wouldn’t end so badly, then if he left maybe it wouldn’t sting so much as the simple thought of it did now.  
  
“It’s pretty late, I think,” Viktor shrugged. “Would you have accepted the flower crown otherwise?”  
  
“What?! No! Definitely not.” Yuuri shook his head, clenched his teeth. He did uncover his face, though.  
  
Viktor sighed and tapped a finger to his lips, trying to find some logic in Yuuri’s words that wasn’t immediately apparent. There had to be some pattern to his behavior, or at least to everything he knew about humans.  
  
Yet, nothing.  
  
It had been so long since he had interacted with humans regularly, learned their society and customs. Who was he to try to find reason in matters so foreign?  
  
“I don’t understand, then. I thought flowers were supposed to be gifts.”  
  
“Well, yeah.”  
  
“And you receive a flower crown on Kupala Night. I know this; you can’t deny it.”  
  
Yuuri shook his head, tense.  
  
“Alright, so why not accept the flower crown? As a gift, apology, whatever works best for you. I have a few reasons if you’ll hear me out. Won’t you take it now?”  
  
Most of what Viktor said had been cut off by Yuuri’s answering denial: “On Kupala Night? It wouldn’t be acceptable most nights but _tonight_?”  
  
“You lost me.”  
  
His tone was pleading, trying to stifle any frustrations he was having in the vague answers Yuuri offered. He couldn’t connect it and Yuuri kept throwing him back in a loop. What was he supposed to think?  
  
Yuuri shook his head and turned away, grabbing a half-full waterskin that he had evidently left off to the side earlier. He threw back a mouthful and kept the waterskin in his hand, gripping it tightly. Viktor wasn’t ignorant of the faint smell of alcohol, and he hadn’t been earlier when it was only obvious on Yuuri’s breath. It wasn’t until Yuuri began clinging to the waterskin that Viktor started to pay mind.  
  
“I thought the Rusalki were supposed to know everything about Kupala Night?” It was a statement, though the wording hinted otherwise.  
  
“Yes, we do. We decide where your flower crowns end up. And that’s how a lot of humans find their soulmates.”  
  
“What else?”  
  
“I didn’t think you would appreciate my mentioning the part about couples going to the woods and— ”  
  
“No! Not that.”  
  
Viktor waited for a moment, tilted his head and hoped for more. It was a relief when Yuuri finally took the hint and stood, gathering his breath before beginning. The waterskin didn’t dare leave his grasp.  
  
“Listen. So we float the flower crowns, and you control the currents to make sure our crowns get to the right person. I regret that fact, but it’s never done me any good to ignore it. And if you sink our crown, then that means a bad future for us. And if they’re not caught, then that means a long marriage. And if they’re caught, well, you seem to know the woods part, though I wonder how.”  
  
Viktor grimaced but Yuuri didn’t notice. He gestured to the river, its tangled reeds and clear expanse and bank further down the river where he had once stood with Christophe in turn to punctuate his explanation. In time he turned back to Viktor and continued with only a brief pause.  
  
“Well, you’re not the only ones to act on Kupala Night. If the person who catches the wreath keeps it in the morning, then the two people will be married.”  
  
Yuuri stared at Viktor for a long moment before accepting the lack of realization on Viktor’s part.  
  
“It’s not just tonight either.” He bent to pick up the flower crown Viktor had presented and held it out. “What I mean is that if I keep this, you could get the idea that we’re going to get married. Which, I’m not sure whether that’s even possible.”  
  
Noticing the realization that accompanied this clarification, Yuuri concluded his speech and polished off the rest of the alcohol. He had to feel the effects soon; Viktor wasn’t entirely sure he should be there for that. But he made no move to leave.  
  
Yuuri tossed the waterskin down again and looked back to Viktor, sighed. “Thanks for the flower crowns and all. But I can’t marry you.”  
  
This wasn’t the issue he had been expecting, not in the slightest.  
  
Anger? Rejection? Resentment? Viktor had been fully prepared for those. He had expected a “no” and heated explanations and to accept it all calmly and graciously.  
  
But this? The assumption of a proposal not shared between them?  
  
How was he supposed to respond?  
  
The mere concept of soulmates, and marriage even more so, was barely understood. Nor did he ever try to turn his mind to it, giving up any comprehension of human culture beyond what he had learned earlier in life as a false hope.  
  
So how was he supposed to respond when he had mistaken social cues so badly and made Yuuri so horrified in the process?  
  
Yuuri fell silent after that, arms crossed and averting his gaze, uncomfortable. Viktor stood, unsure in his actions but knowing he had to do something. It was why he came here. It was what he had been desperate to accomplish for the past four years.  
  
And he knew what he wanted to accomplish.  
  
And he knew his time was running out.  
  
And he was at a loss for words. Any plans he had had were ripped from him with this explanation. Any apology, and attempts to reconcile their friendship, they were marred by his mistakes. Probably exacerbated by the tension already there.  
  
So he would improvise, as he had done before.  
  
“I didn’t know that.” His voice was quiet, urging attention and giving the hint that he wasn’t finished. It wasn’t until Yuuri finally looked up at him again, acknowledged that there was a side to this story that was his, that he spoke again. “I only knew you gave flowers as gifts. And that soulmates give them to each other on this night, though that's not exactly what I meant here either. But I never see the mornings after, I didn’t know what this meant. Can we just…”  
  
Viktor shook his head, not wanting to show his ignorance any further for now. Instead he gently took the flower crown from Yuuri and unknotted the stems, gathering them together until a slightly withered and messy bouquet was made. At the end he held them out.  
  
“Is that any better or am I missing something else? I just wanted to apologize for…” Viktor gestured vaguely, hoping Yuuri understood and leaving it open if not.  
  
“And you’re not trying to marry me?” Yuuri uncrossed his arms and gave a small smile.  
  
Alcohol was a bad thing to mix with tonight. But when else could he actually speak with Yuuri? So Viktor returned his smile.  
  
“No. To be honest, I’m not entirely sure what getting married means.”  
  
Yuuri laughed at that involuntarily before forcing himself to stop. He considered Viktor again, as if in silent admonishment to his friendlier reaction. “And… Alright. I’ll take your word for it on that one. I don’t get why you’re apologizing after all I said last time though. So what— ”  
  
“Wait, before you go on, what do you mean by that?”  
  
“I mean, I didn’t even thank you. You saved me and I feel like all I did was brush you off then leave.” Yuuri's voice turned to solemnity, a show of knowledge and new understanding above all else.  
  
“You don’t have to— ”  
  
But Yuuri held up a hand for him to stop. “Yeah, I do. But, anyway, you were saying?”  
  
Viktor reeled, narrowed his eyes at Yuuri after his staccato assertion. Alcohol could only take the blame so much for Yuuri’s shift in subject again. For a word of gratitude Viktor had never expected in the need to shoulder the responsibility himself. He would be blind to completely ignore how much of Yuuri’s coming to the riverbank years before was his fault, the confidence and inevitable failure that Viktor had never done enough to prevent.  
  
So he gave Yuuri his full apology, his story, in anachronistic rants blending back into logical reasons. Mature words that found a backbone in immature anecdotes and fears. Because however Yuuri had reached the conclusion that gratitude was owed, it needed to be dashed, countered with the truth. And he needed Yuuri to understand why the trust had not been invested from the start, to try to reconcile an unshared history and misunderstandings. Or he tried to, anyway.  
  
Viktor explained why he had feared Yuuri’s rejections should he know that Viktor was a Rusalka, that he had not granted trust to others in centuries.  
  
And clarified he that had kept Yuuri at a distance from the start intentionally, carefully, knowing too well the possible endings considering his daily life and clan.  
  
And apologized for having any hand in Yuuri’s interest in the Rusalki, accompanied by the sinking feeling that this was true. It said too much that Yuuri had sought him out in his youth for confirmation of Viktor’s existence. That he had tested his strength against the Rusalki years after their meeting with the memory of Viktor, who he was and how he looked, obviously too sharp in his mind. How else was he supposed to understand the prolonged interest? The embroidery directed at warding him off?  
  
Yuuri must fear him now. Viktor couldn’t protest or disagree with that. But fear sent Yuuri down the wrong path in trying to become a hero, and guilt gnawed at Viktor, and history overwhelmed him. So maybe warnings could finally keep Yuuri away, safe from the Rusalki's grasp, and maybe apologies and kindness would extinguish Yuuri’s crusade to prove himself against them, to ward them off by getting too close with no real protection.  
  
Viktor had to try. He did.  
  
But Yuuri stopped him once more.  
  
“Maybe… we’ll cover the rest of all that another day. Can you just get to the point for now?” Yuuri rubbed his eyes and looked at Viktor expectantly.  
  
Viktor grimaced, regretting the timing even more so than before. He finally resigned to fetch the fabric Yuuri had been embroidering when he was still alone and tapped on one of the still developing symbols.  
  
“I want to stop you from making these. It’s safer for you to just stay away. I can’t let you try what you did a few years ago again.” It was blunt, and even when he tried to soften his tone, there was no covering up his disapproval.  
  
A beat of silence.  
  
Yuuri didn’t react immediately, frowning and apparently grasping for a response.  
  
Viktor regretted it when Yuuri finally did present his final reaction to the prohibition.  
  
Taking the fabric from Viktor, Yuuri crumpled it in his hands, head bowed over the embroidery, before forcing himself to toss it aside. He rubbed at his eyes again, and Viktor hoped that was the end of it. But Yuuri went on to tug his tunic over his head, struggling briefly in his haste before adding it on top of the rest of the fabric. When he looked back up, Viktor noticed the tears staining Yuuri’s face in the dim light of the bonfire.  
  
Yuuri's reaction made a panic rise in him that he couldn’t remember ever experiencing before. He had always had some amount of control over his life. But this? It twisted his existing guilt into something more difficult to bear and there was no stopping it. There were no words that came to him that felt right in calming Yuuri down. There had never been a precedent to this.  
  
“Yuuri…” It was only one word but Viktor could hear the strain in his voice well enough. He didn’t know how to continue, hesitation coloring his attempt even further, but it didn’t matter.  
  
Yuuri ignored the tears and hiccups and unsteadiness as he began, words already rolling off his tongue before his tunic had reached the ground. He didn’t allow pauses, instead trying to talk through his inebriated agitation as quickly as he could.  
  
“No, no don’t say anything. I just wanted to find a way to talk to you again without breaking my word to you about protecting myself. And the red ribbons and herbs and everything else never seemed to work on you.”  
  
“Well, no, but— ”  
  
“And my last tunic obviously failed and I’ve been trying so hard ever since.”  
  
Yuuri gestured to the tunic he had discarded, prompting Viktor to peer closer at its embroidery. Red thread covered a great portion of the fabric, weighing down the hem, leaving little white to be seen along the sleeves, and spilling down from the collar with every symbol available. Etchings of birds and trees and geometric shapes that only made sense to Yuuri. It was heavier than the last Viktor had seen, even more desperate for an answer.  
  
He wasn’t sure he wanted to see the finished work already lining the next tunic, to realize all the effort Yuuri had already spared for this.  
  
“The first one failed. And obviously this one did too since you’ve been with me all night. It's worthless. Foolish. And you said even the next one will fail.” Yuuri paused every so briefly to sneeze. Gather his thoughts together again. Continue. “And… I don’t know. Maybe I’m wrong but you haven’t stopped me so I think I’m right. None of these work, do they? I can’t tell with you now. I don’t know why you won’t touch me but the others will. I don’t know why you’re warning me away when the other took advantage of my ignorance.”  
  
Hearing Yuuri’s pondering was surreal. Viktor was numb, mind blank as he fought to memorize every word and worry. But he was starting to guess where Yuuri was going with this, could skip to the next words before they were voiced.  
  
_Why am I never good enough for Rusalki, in one way or another?_  
  
Right?  
  
Because Christophe had to have set such a realization in motion with his rejections. Yuuri had been so concerned over it to have questioned what he had done wrong before anything else. And Viktor’s continuous distance must have reaffirmed it, especially now as Viktor stood there listening without immediate protest.  
  
He didn’t want to deny it; wasn’t rejection the best action here?  
  
But Yuuri’s pained voice and continuous tears begged Viktor to reconsider. Yuuri had been put through so much, and Viktor didn’t want to worsen it. He didn’t want to listen to Yuuri’s self-deprecating questions, but for the wrong reasons. There was no room for empathy here, not without risking everything, yet he couldn’t help his reasons.  
  
“Forget that, Yuuri,” Viktor started, willing determination and stability into his every play. “It doesn’t matter what I’m doing; I don’t want to hurt you, with or without protection. But the others do no matter what. Christophe may not act again, and Emil usually won’t, but won’t you remember the rest? Forget about me. If you’re going to keep trying this you have to remember there’s more than just me to contend with.”  
  
“But you’re the only one I wanted to do this for.”  
  
“You need to do it for yourself instead.”  
  
“No, you don’t understand. It’s… it’s for _everything_. Everytime I talk to you all you do is tell me to leave. But I don’t. Don’t want to. So if I do this you can’t tell me to leave. Aren’t I right? If I’m protected but not so much to make _you_ leave, then you can’t keep telling me that.”  
  
Viktor considered it for a moment before nodding reluctantly.  
  
“See!” Yuuri grinned at him so brilliantly, proud and excited and interested. The tears and doubts were forgotten in his explanations. He wrung his hands and edged closer to Viktor. “So it’d let us be friends. And then I can visit without your friend trying to kill me. And if I tell others then we can visit the river in June again without worrying. I told you I was keeping to my promise!”  
  
“Right… You’re really doing all this for…?” Viktor glanced to the discarded fabric and sent a questioning look at Yuuri. No one had ever given him such a hopeful answer before.  
  
“So we can talk again! And then I can always come back. And won’t have to feel ashamed again at having almost been killed.” His tone had turned to that of a mock lecture, contrasting so sharply with the nature of the subject.  
  
Viktor did his best to stay hardened. Excitement and optimism tried to carry him, sway his mind, but he quelled it. No one had ever offered so much effort for him with good reason. “You almost got killed trying all this out, though. And I could’ve been different. You need to think through this more carefully.”  
  
“Which is why I’m lucky that you are you!” Yuuri chirped.  
  
He closed the distance between them to throw his arms around Viktor. Viktor smelled the alcohol on his breath better and felt the warmth of Yuuri’s skin against his cooler own. At the sudden change from fluster to confidence Viktor stilled, not making any returning move for Yuuri’s sake. He kept his arms to his sides, though Yuuri didn’t offer much choice with his tight embrace anyway, and tilted his head back.  
  
For alcohol to ebb away at Yuuri’s concern this much would have worried him more if he was not so busy listening to Yuuri’s continued cries.  
  
“Teach me the right embroidery, Vitya!” Yuuri strengthened his grip and rested his head against Viktor’s chest. He looked back up at Viktor pleadingly. “You said you could do so earlier! You offered! You said I was making the wrong symbols, not the Rusalki ones. Teach me how to embroider right! Please let me be your apprentice!”  
  
Rusalki didn’t need to breathe.  
  
But if they did, if Viktor drew breath as often as Yuuri, he would have lost it with Yuuri’s display. He would have stuttered in his astonishment, growing adoration. The constriction in his chest that met him now was more unbearable than before but welcomed so much more. There was no need to wonder over this feeling when his attention was consumed with Yuuri, every plea and movement. His teeth dug into his bottom lip, biting back his wish to immediately accept Yuuri’s demand.  
  
But he did bite back the desire, refusing to give Yuuri any immediate answer.  
  
“Maybe. I’m not sure that’s the best idea. Ah. Look, we’ll talk about it when you’re… not drunk. If you still want me to teach you tomorrow meet me by the riverbank where Christophe noticed you. We never go that far upstream the rest of the year; you’ll be safe. But I’ll wait for you every morning until autumn. Alright?”  
  
Yuuri nodded automatically and buried his head against Viktor’s shoulder. “I will. I’ll go tomorrow, Vitya. You won’t regret this.”  
  
He wanted to press on, to see if Yuuri really meant this, but was alert enough to stop. The yawn Yuuri issued and dwindling excitement were noticeable. And the night had worn on since he had first joined Yuuri.  
  
“I’ll be waiting. In the meantime, I think it’s best you go home.”  
  
Viktor gently pushed Yuuri away, holding his shoulders until he was sure Yuuri could stand on his own. He held out Yuuri’s tunic for him and insisted he take the unfinished embroidery even when he was met with resistance, not wanting Yuuri to lose his hours of work completely. The waterskin he held onto for Yuuri for now. And in his other hand he still held the cornflowers he had offered to Yuuri before, figuring he wouldn’t want them after all.  
  
Except…  
  
“Wait, no.”  
  
Yuuri carefully pried the flowers from Viktor’s hand and held onto them himself, holding them close. At Viktor’s look of surprise he responded with a shrug and “Cornflowers are my favorite.”  
  
At that Viktor laughed lightly and began leading the way back to the village. He wasn’t entirely sure where Yuuri lived, but they would figure it out. He would make sure Yuuri returned home safely. And to his great hope their parting would only be temporary.  
  
“Mine too.”

* * *

  
  
There was enough thread and fabric left over from the early summer offerings for Viktor to spare some for helping Yuuri. He hadn’t been able to learn whether Yuuri would bring anything himself, but he decided to prepare as much as he could just in case.  
  
After Viktor had finally discovered which doorstep to part with Yuuri at he hurried back to the river. The night was growing old and he couldn’t risk forgetting anything if he was to do justice by Yuuri. So he ignored Christophe and Emil’s questions of how the night had gone and tore through his belongings. He found his old rucksack, scavenged through all the fabric he had stored for the unmarred strips, carefully tucked his needles in the fabrics’ folds, and wound all of his thread together by color and neatly laid it out on top. Red was not a color he came by often, but surely Yuuri could copy his symbols over in red later. And nothing else was missing. Everything else was and would be perfect.  
  
This was one of the few times he was grateful that he was forced to leave his material possessions hidden near the riverbank; he couldn’t have the water staining his new fabric before he could even use it. And now he was quicker than he would have been if their palace on the riverbed was his destination instead. By sunrise he had already collected his supplies together and was making his way to their agreed meeting point.  
  
Reason and self-control reminded him every few steps that Yuuri would probably not be able to meet him for a while yet considering his state last night, but Viktor silenced this every time. It never hurt to be early when the occasion was as important as this. Besides, Yuuri was worth the wait.  
  
There were endless truths behind his wanting to wait for Yuuri. And it was more than just Yuuri’s ideas of protecting himself to be around the Rusalki, something Viktor had never heard of before and was still astonished over. Or his wishing to be taught by Viktor specifically even though their relationship had been near-nonexistent, shaky at best. It was Yuuri, everything about him. The determination that went into every symbol even when they ultimately failed. The surprises he gave Viktor at every turn in unexpected shows of confidence following his obvious shyness. The intelligence and intrigue Viktor was still obsessing over in Yuuri’s grand explanations and plans of everything he so clearly loved. The kindness he showed Viktor even after everything they had been through together, after every moment Viktor had thought he had made irredeemable.  
  
And it was everything in Yuuri’s actions and proclaimed goals because it said so much more of his nature. For all of the logic and optimism, it was still surreal for Viktor to know that being around the Rusalki safely had become Yuuri’s hope. Because when had anyone ever shown an interest in them upon knowing the dangers? The past centuries had been lonely and Viktor couldn’t help but be grateful for the villagers’ sakes. He had never dared wish for more.  
  
To Viktor, it was surreal for Yuuri to have demanded to be taught protection from a Rusalka, from Viktor himself. To be given such great confidence when he had never earned it, not well enough when his apology was still so lacking. He had endangered Yuuri and was given trust in return. He had exposed Yuuri to their world far too much and was met with a request for accompaniment, progress, in return. Nothing like this had ever occurred to him, let alone be given optimism in the face of overwhelming opposition by the rest of the world.  
  
But Yuuri had challenged this, had reached out to Viktor.  
  
Yuuri wanted to change everything for the better.  
  
The interest in improving this existence was hard to resist, to not want to donate all effort he could when the motivation was pure. Yuuri meant it, he had to. Why else would he spend such kindness on Viktor?  
  
It was everything about Yuuri that drew in Viktor. Pure motivations behind his actions and a respect Viktor hadn’t seen or received in so long.  
  
Yuuri was hope itself, with his bright smile and brighter self.  
  
Yuuri was a better promise than Viktor’s reminisces of the past had ever offered. He was lively, committed, permanent, when little else in Viktor’s life had been. He was real when Viktor had become so numb to everything else in his life.  
  
And how could Viktor not want to help him? Or be by his side again?  
  
Yuuri was everything, in and of himself and as the joy Viktor had forgotten.  
  
Yuuri was worth waiting for.  
  
Coming to the stretch of the riverbank where they intended to meet, Viktor slipped the rucksack from his shoulders and settled down to wait. The birds had only just begun their singing for the day, and the village in the distance was still sleepy, and he knew Yuuri would be a while. He smoothed out the fabric of his tunic idly, knowing he could never get out the wrinkles the water left. Yuuri’s reaction hours before had not left his mind and so he had fetched the tunic along with the rest of his supplies willingly.  
  
Everything was prepared.  
  
All he had to do was wait.  
  
So Viktor stared off in the direction Yuuri would be coming from in anticipation and did just that. Only when night fell and weariness overcame him too greatly did he pause his wait and return home, intent on returning the next morning just in case.  
  
Viktor waited for him every morning. Only autumn’s beckoning finally drove him home for every night and day. But he had waited every morning until then. He had done that.  
  
And yet Yuuri never came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gee, I wonder what happened to Yuuri :/
> 
> \- There's no clear image for imaginary plants but here are approximations for the [Chervona Ruta](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chervona_Ruta#/media/File:Rhododendron_luteum_a1.jpg) and the [raskovnik](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Raskovnik#/media/File:Maesilea_quadrifolia_denjisou01.jpg).  
> \- I don't know how underwater palaces work. But usually Slavic fairytale palaces are complete with beds and whatnot so I'm going to stick to that more than physics for the myths' sake.  
> \- Gosha is the diminutive of Georgi. Emílek is the diminutive of Emil (Czech).  
> \- It’s not really significant to the story but the theme of 3 attempts is standard in Russian mythology, which is why Viktor tries 3 times specifically. It also showed up in the previous chapter with “thrice-tenth kingdom”, meaning beyond thrice-ninth lands.
> 
> ~Vasya


End file.
